Wake Up and Smell the Pancakes
by Ayra Sei Ethari
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt: In one universe, Erik left Charles. In another, he stayed. So what happens when the two Eriks get switched? "At first, Erik thinks he's dreaming. Then he realizes that this is Charles. Who is not paralyzed. And KISSING him."
1. Prologue: Five More Minutes Please

_**Wake Up and Smell the Pancakes**_

_Summary:_ Kinkmeme prompt: In one universe, Erik left Charles. In another, he stayed. So what happens when the two Eriks get switched? "At first, Erik thinks he's dreaming. Then he realizes that this is _Charles_. Who is not paralyzed. _And kissing him_."

_Rating:_ K (nothing really bad)

_Genre:_ romance ; angst ; major drama and confusion

_Canon Character(s):_ Charles Xavier/Professor X ; Erik Lehnsherr/Magneto ; Raven Darkhölme/Mystique

_OC Character(s):_ Kali, maybe some other random mutants

_Set During:_ one-two and five-six years after "X-Men: First Class"

_Notes:_ Inspired but not entire compliant with X-Men First Kink Round 8: Magneto wakes up in the world's most comfortable bed to the smell of pancakes. He opens his eyes to see Charles with a tray of breakfast. Upon seeing him awake, Charles straddles him and gives him a series of syrupy tasting kisses. Magneto assumes he is dreaming and goes with it. Downstairs are the former allies he left behind as well as the members of his new organization. There are still tensions and disagreements, but they are handled respectfully through compassion and compromise. This is essentially a united mutant front, operating both a school and working towards the advancement of mutant rights. He and Charles are the leaders of this group and lovers. This place is more than he could have thought to want. He later realizes that this is no dream. It is the world he could've had if he had laid down the missiles and gone home with Charles. He is filled with regret and wishes to stay forever. So, of course, he gets sent back. It is then that he must find a away to right things as much as possible. He lost out on perfection, but damned if he is about to lose the next best thing.

Also inspired by Rift by qikiqtarjuaq and Surrender to Hopeby Macx.

I'm going to switch between the two Eriks' POVs. One is going to be 1963 Erik (the Erik who abandoned Charles on the beach) and the other is going to be the 1967 Erik (who stayed with Charles). Hopefully I can find a better way of distinguishing between the two – if anyone can think of a better way let me know!

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><p><strong><em>Prologue: Five More Minutes Please<em>**

~ _1963 Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>Erik thinks he might be in heaven. If he believed that he could ever deserve to go to heaven, of course. Which means that this is probably a dream. A very, very, <em>very<em> nice dream – Erik won't argue with that – and he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth considering the pile of unpleasant surprises that have popped up over the past year (surprises like finding out Charles was paralyzed, for instance).

This is why, instead of trying to wake up, Erik keeps himself in a purposely groggy mindset.

He has Charles in his arms. Charles, wonderful lovely sweet Charles, _in his arms_. A Charles who is still trusts Erik and sleeps with his face tucked against Erik's neck, trusting him to hold the nightmares at bay and never hurt him. A Charles who still indulges in scotch and those ridiculously childishly soft pinstriped pajamas. A Charles who still is not paralyzed, who sleeps with his legs tucked in a ball like a child. The Charles Erik fell so hard for that he is still picking up the pieces of the heart that shattered in Cuba (and personally, he knows it's a lost cause, as the aforementioned telepath absconded from that beach with the largest piece).

Erik thinks he might go cross-eyed, after a few moments, if it 1) possible to do so when dreaming, and 2) well . . . if he wasn't dreaming.

But he'll wake up soon, and this dream is so _nice_. . .

Usually, if he dreams at all and especially of Charles, it's of Charles's face, contorted in pain as he falls to the beach; Charles's eyes, shimmering with unshed tears and resignation and _pain_; Charles's voice, ringing over and over in his ears: "_She didn't do this, Erik. You did. You did-You did-Youdidyoudid_" –

Until he wakes up.

And remembers the beach. Remembers the bullet he now carries with him always in his pocket. Remembers the cold metal helmet he now almost never takes off.

Although, contrary to most beliefs, he does not wear that helmet to keep Charles out because he thinks Charles would, God forbid, take control of Erik or wipe his mind or anything of that nature. (Charles is the most careful with his telepathy around those he loves. Like Raven. Like Erik. He would never take away Erik's free will, just like Erik would never use the metal he can sense in Charles's wheelchair to harm Charles.) He keeps it on because he's hurt Charles so badly, this time, and he just won't be able to deal with if Charles uses his telepathy to tell Erik's he's forgiven. Bad enough that he had to listen to Charles's voice calmly telling him he was forgiven, bad enough he had to look in Charles's eyes and see that the telepath actually _meant_ it. Because some crimes can't be forgiven, no matter what.

This is one of them.

Erik doesn't want to wake up, this time. He, childishly perhaps, never wants to wake up, even though he knows he will.

Charles mutters uneasily in his sleep, his forehead furrowing as he somehow manages to push himself even closer to Erik's chest. He settles pretty quickly when Erik soothes him with a careful kiss to his hair, though, wondering idly at how realistically soft Charles's hair is, how realistically tangible Charles's body feels in his arms.

_I wonder_, Erik thinks, _if you dream of me, Charles. I wonder what you think of me. I wonder if you blame me as you should. I wonder if you might ever blame me enough._

Secretly, he doesn't think Charles ever will – he loves Erik too damn much. And secretly, Erik's glad.

Charles's rejection on the beach broke his heart. His placid forgiveness is cracking Erik's resolve. But if Charles blamed him, _hated him_ – Erik thinks he might just break Erik's mind then too, without even needing to use his telepathy.

Erik loves him too damn much too.

Charles stirs suddenly. "Erik, for God's sake, it is _four in the morning_," he says grumpily, his voice sleep-rough and childishly grumpy. "Whatever it is you are thinking about – and no, I don't know what it is – _it is too early in the bloody morning for it_. Go back to sleep."

"Bossy, aren't you," Erik manages to reply after a bit, because, _God_, it sounds _exactly_ like Charles sounded, once.

Charles huffs indignantly. _Go to sleep, Erik_, he murmurs in Erik's mind, and with a soft breeze, Erik finds his worries and woolgathering abruptly fifty thousand miles away and terribly unimportant at this time. His body relaxes. No need to fuss – Charles is here, safe, asleep – Erik can deal with these problems another time, Charles will help – he just needs to go back to sleep and sleep and sleep . . .

Erik falls asleep before he realizes that he went to bed wearing the helmet, and shouldn't be able to hear Charles's thoughts.

* * *

><p>~ <em>1967 Erik Lehnsherr<em> ~  
>Erik is seriously reconsidering having these late night "teacher conferences" with Charles in the study room. His head <em>hurts<em> from all that wine and feels like it's five pounds heavier, and something is wrong with his nose because it is telling him that there is sea water nearby, and something is just wrong in _general_, because he can't feel his bond with Charles in his head and there is no warm body tucked beside him.

So.

Either he drank _way_ too much wine last night (and now he winces, because Charles drank way more and he doesn't particularly like dealing with a hung-over and projecting telepath) or someone put something that is probably illegal into said wine (which also doesn't bode well for a telepath whose projection range grows by at least a hundred bloody miles every year).

(Yes, he uses "bloody" and he completely blames Charles, because with the bond in the back of his head, Charles's Britishness is leaking through and Erik has noticed that he's drinking a hell of a lot more tea than he used to.)

Someone bangs on his door and he groans. God, it is way too early in the morning to deal with _another_ explosion. Seriously, can't Hank or Alex or Sean take care of three kids that are only about ten years old? _Without_ barging in on Charles and Erik and sheepishly explaining about yet another incident involving Jean's telekinesis, Ororo's tendency to cause rainstorms indoors, or Scott's plasma blasts?

No. Apparently not. And once Erik wakes up, he's up – he won't be falling back asleep unless Charles plants a telepathic suggestion in his mind or until he falls back into bed with said telepath sometime late tonight.

"Magneto!"

Ah. Correction. This is Raven. And she's using his codename, which means that 1) the CIA or the American government has done something exceptionally stupid about mutants requiring him to go glare them into submission or 2) Azazel is refusing to speak in English again and Erik is needed to play translator or snap at him in Russian for something. (Emma refuses to get involved when Raven and Azazel fight because she claims it's hilarious, and Charles studiously avoids his sister when she's like this because, in his words, "she's like a bloody valkyrie, this is _insane_, I refuse to get involved in my _sister's_ love spats!")

So the task falls to Erik, who usually ends up despising Azazel's mutation because it means that he can't simply shove Raven and Azazel in the bunker and weld the door shut to have them fight it out.

(Of course, it isn't like Erik and Charles are that easy to lock in a room when they argue either. But that's a story for another time.)

"What is it this time, Raven?" he groans in the general direction of the doorway.

"_Magneto!_"

He finally consents to sit up. It sounds urgent. Or maybe he's just still really hung-over. He leans over automatically to the space beside him and presses a kiss to Charles's hair – or shoulder, as he misses and accidentally kisses something he would wager is more like Charles's pajamas than his hair, but it's the same sentiment – before he stumbles towards the door, boycotting opening his eyes and so banging his toes on various furniture items as he uses his mutation to sense his way to the door.

"What?" he says, rubbing at his eyes.

Then he very nearly bites his own tongue off.

Raven is _naked_. Like, no clothes at all. No even the decency of using her mutation to put on clothes over her scaly form. He has no problem with said scaly form, but Charles is squeamish about seeing Raven naked ("She's my _sister_, Erik, I refuse to see her walking around naked – " "She's already seen you naked, Charles, it's not like she's never walked in on _us_ before – " "That – Erik – That's not the _point_, Erik!") and, due to the bond in the back of his head, by default now Erik is too. So Raven usually consents to at least wear a shirt and short-shorts or a short skirt.

"Raven, where are your _clothes_?" he says, looking upward.

She gives him the stink-eye. "My name is _Mystique_, Magneto, and I haven't worn clothes for a year – why are you getting squeamish about this now?"

Erik splutters. He sure as hell did _not_ pull a Sleeping Beauty and sleep for longer than one night, because Charles is a telepath and would have woken him up after perhaps a day because Charles can do that stuff. He thinks. Charles can do a lot of stuff Erik doesn't prefer to think about, because only another telepath can comprehend it and it usually gives Erik a gigantic headache that Emma laughs at him for.

"Raven – _Mystique_," he revises when she glares at him, "please, for your brother's sake, put some clothes on – you know I hate dealing with Charles when he's sulking; he gives the entire damn house a headache when that happens."

Mystique blinks at him, her rage dissipating. "Did you hit your head or something, Magneto?"

Erik rubs at his eyes and God his head feels heavy. Maybe he did hit his head or something. He's going to have to get Charles to take away this hangover if he is supposed to function properly today. Everything is just not making sense.

"Possibly. Your brother decided to break out his father's old wine collection," Erik says mournfully. "So my apologies if he broadcasts his hangover all over. . . Can you ask Emma to help us at breakfast?"

Mystique blinks again. "Er, Magneto. . . What the hell is wrong with you?"

Erik tries to scratch at his head, but his fingers slip off some shiny metal casing that curves under his chin. He scowls and scratches harder, but no, whatever it is, it won't come off.

"Magneto, you're wearing a helmet. Which is _not_ conducive to scratching your head."

Erik's hand stills. Why would he wear a helmet? He never wears a helmet, not anywhere, his control over motorcycles is strong enough that he'd never crash and helmets make Charles uneasy because they remind him of Shaw's ugly thing.

He pulls it off his head.

And stares.

He knows this helmet. It's got that low-level hum of telepathic-resistance alloy that Erik knows all too well and wishes he didn't. But now it's some God awful scarlet color that makes his eyes water.

"Okay, which kid found it and why did they decide to put it on my head?" Erik snaps.

Charles _hates_ this helmet – he'd confessed, once, that when Erik put it on it was like Erik had died. And Erik hates being cut off from Charles, no matter how infrequently or brief it is. Funny, he _thought_ that he'd told Hank in no uncertain terms to study it (only to find out how to neutralize it) and then have Scott or Alex or _someone_ destroy it, because he hates the panicked look in Charles's eyes when he sees it.

But more importantly, Erik wonders why Charles didn't notice Erik vanishing from his telepathic map. Or why they didn't notice someone slipping into their bedroom.

Mystique stares, jaw all the way to the floor. "Erik, what are you _doing_?" she hisses. "Emma is right downstairs, do you know how _vulnerable_ you are without that – "

Erik tosses the helmet off to a corner, still scowling. He's learned from Charles some better ways to keep other telepaths out and his thoughts to himself, for one, and for another, Charles doesn't take kindly to anyone else messing with Erik's mind and Charles is stronger than Emma telepathy-wise, so Erik's not too concerned about Emma trying anything.

"Charles would kick her out, and you know it. Raven, why do you keep calling me Magneto? What's Azazel done this time?"

"Azazel? What?"

Erik groans. _It is way too early in the morning for this._ He waves a hand and shuts the door in her face. She is older than she looks due to her mutation, she has a relatively good head on her shoulders, she can deal with whatever is going on for at least another few hours while Erik wakes up properly. Right now, he wants a bed, sleep, and Charles. So he stumbles back to the bed, tripping over some obnoxious maroon cloak thing on the chair, and falls into bed with a relieved sigh.

Erik falls asleep before he realizes that _he_ was the one to destroy that helmet, and that he can't feel his bond with Charles in the back of his mind.

* * *

><p>AN: Well, what do you think?


	2. Wake Up & Smell the Pancakes

A/N: Yeah, aren't my titles so unique? Anyways – I've decided to shift chapters between the 1963 Erik and the 1967 Erik, so as to avoid confusion. This, obviously, is the chapter from the 1963 Erik's POV, the Erik who left Charles at Cuba.

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><p><em><strong>Chapter One: Wake Up and Smell the Pancakes<strong>_

~ _1963 Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>When Erik wakes again, the sun is out, the birds are singing, and he was feels warm and well-rested. And strangely hollow.<p>

The dream is over.

The bed is empty, now, with Erik the single inhabitant. The rest of the bed is smooth and even, not slept in, and Erik lets out a long breath. He doesn't understand why he'd thought that Charles might be beside him. He's dreamed happy fantasies about Charles, of course – generally, no _always_ before the beach where he put a bullet in his beloved's back – and it was always simple things, because Erik has always appreciated the simple things: kissing Charles good morning at breakfast, racing him around the house on their former daily runs, teasing him and calling him lab rat, holding him close in his arms as they watch the television, debating over chess games and scotch, falling into bed with Charles ensconced in his embrace.

But, as Erik knows all too well, dreams are just that – _dreams_.

It's true that Erik and Charles have done some of his fantasies. He's teased Charles, he's raced him, he's argued with him. He's even made love to him, one agonizingly fast, fear-filled encounter the night before Cuba, when Erik was fully convinced he would not live to see the next night and Charles was desperate to convince him otherwise by any means possible. It had given him a chance, small as it was, to _hope_ – to have something to come back to.

Then, of course, came Cuba for real, and somehow it turned out far worse than even Erik's worst nightmares.

True, he would have never forgiven himself had Shaw gotten a hold of Charles, because he can imagine all to well his former torturer's fascination with Charles's own gift, but he could have done something about it. Now, he finds himself stuck, unable to move forward or back, knowing that _he's_ the reason Charles will never walk again, never dance again, never run and play and _be free_.

Erik shakes his head. He's becoming maudlin, and he's nowhere near the time for his midlife crisis. He has to remain focused.

The scar of Charles being paralyzed by Erik's hand will never heal. So he takes a deep breath, and reminds himself, _It was Moira who shot the bullet, it is Moira's fault, it is Moira who shot the bullet_ –

The door creaks open, and the smell of freshly made, homemade pancakes wafts through the door.

Erik blinks. Emma doesn't cook. Nor does Mystique. Or Azazel. Or Janos. Or Angel. Out of the entire Brotherhood, surprisingly, Erik is the one who knows the most about cooking, and who often does, unless they order out or have Azazel steal a meal.

That's when _Charles_ walks in the door, carrying the tray of blueberry pancakes and decanter of orange juice. While Erik stares, jaw barely kept from falling to the floor and blankets twisted in his clenched fists, Charles sets the tray on the bed and climbs in beside him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and smiling at him, still sleep soft and rumpled. He nestles against Erik like it's something they do often, as if Erik _hadn't_ put a bullet in his back, as if it's habit for Charles to ensure that Erik has his favorite type of breakfast, fresh fruit on hand and no chocolate nearby.

"Morning," Charles says cheerfully, settling comfortably and starting to eat.

Erik blinks. And pinches himself subtly.

Well. This is one realistic dream. But it's not like Erik will _complain_. He'll take as much of Charles as he can get.

Even a dream Charles.

He turns and Charles looks at him with syrup dripping off his lips, wiping clumsily at his mouth as he sets his fork down and raises an eyebrow.

"Aren't you hungry?" Charles inquires, seemingly puzzled.

Erik raises his hand and lets it linger in the back of Charles's neck, combing among the soft curls at the back of his head, unable to keep himself from touching Charles. If this is a dream, he'll make the most of it. He pushes the tray – it's metal, he notes, as are the plates and the utensils and even the glasses have metal bases – away and turns to pin Charles against the headboard, kissing him as though there's no tomorrow because dreams always end and Erik doesn't want this one to end.

Because this is Charles. Who is not paralyzed. And kissing him _back_.

Charles tastes like sugar and blueberries and juice, and it's addicting, everything that's so simple and everything that so precious to him all the same, because it's _Charles_.

When Erik remembers that he has to breathe, he draws away, reluctantly.

Charles stares at him, chest heaving for air, blue eyes shining in a way that makes Erik's breath catch. He's safe and he's beautiful and he's _Erik's_.

Then Charles leans in again and kisses him, short and chaste, on the corner of his lips. "Good morning to you too, Erik," he says again, sounding slightly breathless in a way that makes Erik irrationally proud of getting to see Charles this disheveled. "But come on, the children are waiting and we really do need to finish breakfast and get decent before we can go downstairs. Haven't you been waiting for this extraction?"

Erik blinks. "What?" he asks stupidly.

Charles laughs at him. Then he pushes gently at Erik's chest, twisting cleverly in his embrace so that Erik lands on his back.

Erik stares.

Charles is terrible at fighting, any kind of fighting – well, that doesn't involve telepathy, anyways. He tries not to cheat using telepathy, but Erik knows it's hard for him to have skin-to-skin contact and _not_ know what someone is planning to do. However, that has never meant that Charles has ever been able to wriggle out of Erik's grip, because Erik is taller and stronger and so whatever might work for him doesn't usually work for Charles, even if Charles goes digging through his mind for any knowledge Erik might have on escaping. Not to mention that Erik's fighting methods are solidly engrained in muscle memory now, so he hardly ever consciously _thinks_ about it, which makes Charles digging information out even harder.

Charles stares down at him smugly, even though he makes no attempt to pin down Erik's wrists, something of which Erik's conscious mind thanks his subconscious for. Erik is still too wary of losing control – even if it is merely an illusion of control, considering that Charles could leave Erik a drooling mess of compliancy if he really wished.

A wisp of _smugness-happiness-considering_ floats through Erik's mind, quick, like a flash of a firefly's light, and then is gone.

"Almost got me," Erik says, deciding to play along for now, carefully lifting his torso as he hooks a leg around Charles's waist to drag him closer. "But you forgot one thing."

Charles blinks at up, innocent and confused. "What?"

Erik lets his mouth curl into the grin he knows that used to make Sean call him some not very nice names, the best of which was "a goddamned scary shark about to eat you". "Never get complacent, Charles."

Then he grabs Charles's shoulders and flips them, squishing the telepath to the bed with his weight as he wraps long fingers around his wrists and pinning his thighs together so he can't kick. Charles struggles briefly and instinctively, but without the advantage of surprise or telepathy, he still can't match Erik strength-to-strength. Charles, like his gift, works best in stealth and secrecy, not open struggles.

"Erik!" he chides. "That's not fair – you've gotten heavier, you – !"

Erik rests his forehead against Charles's, grinning at the telepath's indignant expression. "If you insist on bringing mountains of pancakes to bed every day, I can see why," he jokes. It's a nice gesture, and Erik would have been happy to have Charles do it, but – _dream_. This is a dream. This isn't real. This is something his subconscious has dreamed up, something with everything he might have ever wanted in it, and he has to remember that. This is a –

Someone bangs on the door.

"Charles! Erik! I know you're awake!" It's Mystique's voice, annoyed and grumpy. "Get your butts out of bed! If you're making out again, I'll have Emma kick both your butts!"

Charles rolls his eyes, but he pulls gently at the hold Erik has on his wrists. "Erik, come on, let me up," he says, pouting at Erik like he's a five year old used to always getting his way. "I've no intention of fighting Emma again."

"Why not?" Erik asks, pretending to tease but genuinely curious. Charles didn't really like Emma, and neither did Mystique – he doesn't understand why his subconscious has them all friendly and on first-name terms all of a sudden. _Erik_ doesn't really like Emma, although that could be because Emma spent the entire flight back from Russia prodding at Charles via telepathy until they finally sedated her.

Charles surges up and kisses Erik suddenly, all filthy promise that makes Erik's concentration falter. "We can always continue later."

Then, like some of slippery eel, he's out of Erik's hold and digging through his dresser.

Erik groans. Even in his dreams, he's doomed.

But he dutifully climbs out of bed and heads for the other dresser, which he presumes is his, given all the metal in it and the fact that this is a dream _his_ subconscious has dreamed up. The domesticity is appalling and strangely alluring.

Then Erik realizes that he can _feel_ Charles's movements as he shuffles around the bedroom and pulls on clothes.

He closes his eyes and reaches out – and yes, sure enough, there are thin metal bracelets enveloping Charles's wrists and ankles. They're Erik's handiwork, as they are much stronger than their thin delicacy suggests, and there's no clasp at all to any of them. He feels an irrational surge of pride at it – a mark on Charles as _Erik's_, irrefutable and unique, better than any wedding ring might be – and now he understands why he can't stop being aware of where Charles is, because the metal sings to him, warm with Charles's body heat and composed of gold and silver and blood-iron.

"Erik?"

Erik looks up to see Charles with his shirt half buttoned up, a quizzical expression on his face. He's running fingers over one of his wrist bracelets.

"What is it?"

Charles strides across the room, crowding cheerfully into Erik's space and nuzzling against his chest. "I'll be fine," he breathes. "This extraction is child's play, Erik, you needn't worry so much. I'll be perfectly safe."

Erik swallows. The idea of Charles in harm's way . . . "How did you know?"

Charles snorts fondly up at him. "These always get warmer whenever you're dwelling on me," he explains, shaking a wrist at him. "You know that."

And that. That. That is too much.

Suddenly, this domesticity is agonizing. It's too much. It's everything Erik wants and can't have, and he just – he can't deal with it. This dream is too beautiful for someone like Erik. Charles might deserve it – Charles _does_ deserve it – but Erik never will, and he's never been too fond of torturing himself with something beyond his reach.

He buries his face on Charles's hair, trying to memorize the moment.

_Now_, he thinks, _would be a great time to wake up._

For a second, nothing happens, and Erik debates pinching himself again to see if it might wake him up. Or rolling over – if he falls off the bed, he'll most definitely wake up.

Charles goes stiff in his arms.

That's the only warning Erik gets before pain, quick and inescapable and blinding as lightning, blasts through his mind, and he staggers away from Charles. He's felt Charles's telepathy before, but never so strongly and never directed against him. Tears well in his eyes as he clutches at his head, unable to move or talk or even scream.

Charles is suddenly slamming him against the wall, his eyes burning, hands tight against his throat. "Who are you?" he hisses, menace in every syllable, the words ringing so loudly in Erik's mind that he thinks his eardrums might be bursting. "You are _not_ Erik Lehnsherr – so _who are you?_"

"Charles!"

The door bursts open, and Mystique skids into the room, gloriously blue, gold eyes awash with fear. There's a _poof_ and burst of smoke, and then Emma is standing there, along with Hank and Alex and Sean and Riptide and Angel. They all stare, for a moment, but then Charles whirls around and all of their faces harden. Emma steps forward, her body shimmering into diamond form, as Alex and Hank dart forward to flank Charles, and Mystique leaps to Emma's side, her teeth bared.

"Nice job," Emma says appreciatively. "But you overplayed your hand trying this on a telepath with a shapeshifter for a sister."

The pain intensifies, and Erik gasps helplessly as Charles _pushes_ and forces him to grab his own throat. He struggles – or tries to – but Charles has complete control over his body and –

Erik doesn't think this is a dream anymore. He should have woken up.

_Wake up, wake up, wake up, wakeupwakeupwakeup_, he thinks, as hard as he could possibly think, as his own hands begin to choke off his air. He's never been so scared of Charles's power as he is now, with no helmet to protect him, and apparently his own second-in-command willing to let the brother she cast aside strangle him. _Come on, wake _up_, wake up, wake up_ –

"You-are-not-Erik-Lehnsherr," Charles snarls, body trembling in rage, eyes burning holes into Erik's face. "And you will tell me who you are, and what you have done with Erik, or I will rip it from your mind."

"Now," Emma adds pleasantly, her own eyes hard as flint.

_Wake up, wake up, wake up!_

Charles's eyes widen then – and the pain is abruptly gone. His hands fall away from his throat, and Erik falls ungracefully to the floor, gasping for air as his mind spins from the double onslaught of Charles's mental attack and his own near-strangulation. In all the time he's spent with Charles, he has never seen Charles lose control like that – and it's even scarier than his worst imaginations. He _knows_ that Charles can read minds, can control minds, can wipe them clean like a _tabula rasa_, but he never truly followed down that path and realized just how far Charles could go.

Mystique eyes him wearily. "Charles?"

Charles stares at him as though he's seeing Erik for the first time. "Oh my God," he breathes. "Oh my _god_ – what have they done to you?"

Erik pushes himself to a sitting position. "No, Charles," he says. The Charles Erik knows would _never_ attack anyone like that, no matter what. And especially not for Erik's sake. "The question is, what have they done to _you_?"

Then he raises a hand and attacks the metal bands on Charles's ankles and wrists. The telepath writhes helplessly as they coil to bind his legs together and then curl upwards to encircle his throat, growing teeth like a crown of thorns. Erik feels no regret – because this can't be Charles. He's felt Charles in his mind, and he knows Charles's feelings, and he _knows_ that Charles would never ever do what he just did to Erik.

A hand slams into his face, and he staggers backwards.

Emma. She's still in diamond form, face clearly furious as she grapples with him. "Let Charles go, _now_!" she demands.

A switch flips.

Erik goes completely still. He can't feel metal. He can't metal. _He can't feel metal._

This dream is getting worse and worse. The world begins to turn red and grey – any moment now, Erik knows, and Schmidt will come up, and the whips, and the chains, and the needles, and the brands, and he cries out helplessly as he throws himself against Emma, howling in his misery, because metal balances him and grounds him in a way nothing else can, because this dream has become his worst nightmare and _he can't feel metal_ –

"Erik! Erik, please!"

Charles. It's Charles. He knows that voice, is bound to it, turns helplessly to it as cool hands touch his face.

_Wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up_ –

"Erik!"

Finally, slowly, Charles's face comes into view, and Erik realizes he's lying on the floor, curled into a fetal ball of agony, anchored to the world only by the hands Charles has pressed against his cheeks. Around her are members from Erik's Brotherhood and Charles's X-Men, standing together, faces contorted into concern and wariness.

"What – What's going on?" he croaks.

Charles strokes a hand along his face. "Oh, what have they done to you, my friend?" he whispers, and there's _pain_ in his voice, real tangible _pain_.

Mystique shifts. "Charles, what the hell is going on?" she demands.

Charles turns. "I don't know, Raven," he admits. "But I read his mind. He _is_ Erik, just – a little changed. Different. I can't – it's like his mind is written _differently_ – like something went _wrong_ between us – Emma, would you mind – "

Emma's diamond form dissipates in an instant, and her eyes narrow as ice filters into Erik's mind, pushing and pulling – and her eyes grow huge.

"It is," she breathes. "It is Erik. But – "

"But _what_?" Azazel interrupts.

"He's not from this universe," Charles says slowly, looking down at Erik. "He's a different Erik Lehnsherr. From a completely different universe." He swallows, and tears glitter in his eyes. "A universe where . . . where I was paralyzed on the beach at Cuba and where . . . where Erik and I are . . . are _enemies_."


	3. We Aren't in Westchester Anymore

A/N: And now we have the 1967 Erik, the one who stayed with Charles.

To PinkPixie: Yeah, I get annoyed when Charles is portrayed as a wimp in slash too. So prepare for more BAMF!Charles in later chapters.

To Fear the Struggle Bus: I don't plan to take too long in between updates, so hopefully death threats aren't necessary. Feel free to poke me via PM or reviews if I start dragging, though, because it's a horrible habit of mine.

To TONO'S PIZZA DELIVERY: Yeah, I tried to make Charles as scary as possible. I was trying to draw the greatest difference between what the two Eriks were expecting. The Erik who left Charles, I think, sees Charles as a pacifistic idealistic who can't act, so I gave you a Charles who literally ripped into Erik's mind. And the Erik of this chapter, the one who stayed, is used to an upbeat, ready-to-tear-into-your-mind Charles, so he'll be surprised when he gets the upset, gloomy Charles who wiped Moira's mind. But that'll come later.

To all reviewers: Thanks! You made my day! And read on!

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><p><strong><em>Chapter Two: We're Not in Westchester Anymore<em>**

~ _1967 Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>When Erik wakes again, it's because of a rather rude mental knock against his shields. The knock doesn't get through, though, because 1) Charles helped make the foundations, and he's the strongest telepath on record, and 2) Erik's spent five years learning how to hold these shields against other telepaths.<p>

Charles doesn't knock on Erik's mind. He doesn't have to. It's taken a while, but Erik can't stand hypocrisy, especially in himself, and so Charles is allowed into Erik's mind whenever he wishes. Charles still asks, sometimes, because he's Charles, but most of the time he just sort of dwells in the back, radiating happiness or whatever emotion he happens to be feeling through the bond that marks Erik as Charles's as irrefutably as the metal bracelets clasped on Charles's wrists and ankles mark Charles as Erik's. They are bonded together, mind and body, and Erik no longer is bothered when Charles employs his telepathy on Erik anymore than Charles is bothered when Erik grabs the metal bracelets to guide Charles's movements. Telepathy is the gift evolution gave to Charles, and he will not deny Charles its usage.

So this knock can't come from Charles. Which leaves . . .

_Emma. Get out of my head._ He underlines the thought in bold and bright red flashing lights, the way Charles has taught him to, projecting it as loudly as he knows how – and from the constant complaining Charles used to let loose before Erik and Charles bonded, he knows he projects rather loudly already.

He can feel the ice-cold wince. _Get _up_, oh great Magneto_, Emma says mockingly, staying studiously close to the very edges of Erik's mind. _Your dear little shapeshifter is working herself into a fit now._

Erik grunts into the pillow. _Tell Raven I'm fine._

_I am _not_ a mail delivery system_, Emma snaps, withdrawing. _Go tell her yourself._

Erik sighs, and then takes a moment to reinforce his shields. It's not about making the shields thicker or stronger; the trick is to make the shields the shield itself. Erik is generally grounded in physical mazes, but Charles has trained him the proper way to keep out a telepath, which is to make the shield a three-dimensional maze, with no physical walls, bound and created by emotion. If a telepath manages to get in, they have to figure out which emotion or thought is something Erik is thinking in reaction to the information the telepath wants and what is something he's built the walls with. Charles is the only one who can get through Erik's maze in seconds, because he taught Erik how and so has the universal key, so to speak.

Also, he knows how Erik thinks better than anyone else.

Erik is just fine with that. Charles trusts Erik with his body, so it's only fitting that Erik should trust Charles with his mind.

Then Erik opens his eyes and sits up – and his jaw falls to the floor.

This is _not_ his room. Or rather, _their_ room – the master suite has always belonged to Charles (it was his father's once, and now is Charles's), and when they moved to the mansion after the attack on the CIA headquarters in 1962 Erik picked out a bedroom just like everyone else, but Erik rarely actually _slept_ in it. It was only after the end of the Cuban Missile Crisis, as it is now called, that Erik officially moved into Charles's bedroom – but now that it's been five years, people are kind of used to it. It's now Erik and Charles's bedroom.

And Erik knows that bedroom. And _this_ is not it. It's too small, for one, and the bed is equally too tiny. Erik can barely fit into it; he doesn't understand how he and Charles managed to fit together in it. There's a dearth of furniture in the room, too; besides the bed, there's a desk, two chairs, and a chest, and that's about it.

_Maybe it's a safe house?_

It is possible, of course, that this is one of their many safe houses. Erik, with the help of Emma and Raven, had taken over Shaw's assets shortly after his death, including all of the money he'd accumulated over his very long lifetime and all the houses he'd had scattered around the globe. They've established contingency plans, if someone had ever discovered the mansion behind the powerful psychic shields and legal safeguards Charles and Emma have put into place or if a mission had ever gone very wrong, and it is possible that one of those plans has finally been tested, but . . .

But Erik thinks he would _remember_ that. Moving the entirety of their odd family takes a lot of time and preparation, even with Azazel's teleporting.

The only reason he wouldn't would be if Charles put him to sleep. Yet there's no possible reason for Charles to do so. In fact, Charles has only done so once, in all the time Erik and Charles have been together: after Charles was released from the hospital, and Erik was so guilt-ridden and ashamed that he hadn't slept in four days, watching over Charles's prone body like a hawk, and Charles had called him an idiot, asked him to stay, told him he loved him, and then, upon receiving Erik's apology and own promise of love, forced him into sleep before Erik could protest any further.

Even when Charles is most frustrated with Erik, he takes the time to argue it out. Whether this is done verbally is debatable, but they still talk it out.

_Charles?_

There is no answer, which is strange – but perhaps Charles is merely out of range. Their bond is undeniably strong, strong enough that only something like the helmet can truly sever it completely, but of course if Charles is halfway around the globe it does make communicating via the bond somewhat difficult.

So Erik isn't terribly alarmed by Charles's absence. Charles will return, eventually, or Erik will get Azazel and go back to Westchester. It never takes too long before one sends word for the other, because Erik has become an anchor of sorts for Charles's telepathy, and it's taxing on him to remain apart from Erik for extended periods of time. (Also, although Erik will never admit it to anyone, he hates being away from Charles too because he hates the silence in the back of his mind, and never being completely sure that Charles is merely a thought away and safe, safe, _safe_.)

He levers himself out of bed and trips immediately over this God awful maroon cloak that is somewhere between atrocious and laughable. It's like a child playing villain or . . . or . . . Erik can't think of anything else. But it's _awful_.

When Erik finds out which kid is messing with him, they will be _paying_ for it in training laps for the next year and a half. Or longer.

Still grumbling, he maneuvers his way down to what he suspects represents the kitchen, based on the alignment of thrumming metal that coalesces into pots and pans and knives and the normal kitchen appliances. His team – or, rather, half of it – are sitting haphazardly around the table in the middle, with Emma sipping daintily at some tea while Raven and Angel gulp down coffee. They're all eating what looks like some sort instant oatmeal and bacon, except for Azazel, who is picking moodily at something that looks like . . . something Erik would rather _not_ examine, thank you very much.

"Whose turn was it to cook today?" he sighs, because this looks like something Sean or Alex might have come up with. Emma is great at making fancy drinks and possibly preparing scrambled eggs, out of all things, and Raven and Angel can do instant food if they are forced too. Between Hank and Charles, though, they're usually okay, because Hank's intellect in chemistry thankfully extends to food prepared on the stove and Charles somehow, somewhere picked up how to bake really well. Possibly from stealing memories of recipes from his cook when he was young. But Erik's not commenting on that, and neither is anyone else.

Basically, out of their entire little family, only Erik, Charles, and Hank can actually _cook_, but they force the others to rotate, once in a while, in pathetic attempts to not become total failures at parental figures, but it usually ends up like this: either in instant food or take-out.

Five pairs of eyes look at him like he's insane.

Perhaps he is. Only Alex can burn something as simple as oatmeal. It's not Alex's fault, of course, having been bounced from foster home from foster home and then landing in jail, but sometimes Erik can only shake his head and sigh because _good lord, Alex, the instructions are on the box_.

Erik sweeps to the kitchen and rescues whatever the burning clump was supposed to be, and then he roots through the refrigerator (and is amazed at how badly it is stocked, he'll need to speak to Charles about this) until he finds enough ingredients to make a semi-decent omelet with cheese and bacon and whatever else he can find. It's not much, but it should be enough to feed at least six or seven people.

It's not until he's levitating cabinets open in search of plates that he realizes that everyone is staring at him.

"What? You _want_ to eat Alex's masterpiece?" he asks, gesturing at the oatmeal.

Raven is the first to stand, palms out and up, as though he might go insane and rip her head off. "Magneto . . . Are you all right?" she inquires tentatively.

Erik blinks. ". . . Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're _cooking_," Angel states, as though it's the newest miracle on Earth.

Now it's Erik's turn to stare incredulously. He cooks a lot when Charles or Hank can't, because no one else _can_, and someone has to feed the children. In fact, it'd only been last week that Angel herself had been devouring the steak he'd made for dinner and praising it to heaven through gigantic bites that had made Charles keep a wary eye on her in case she choked.

"I cooked dinner only three days ago, Angel," he says, slowly. "Did you forget already?"

Silence meets his comment.

Erik turns around to gather plates, sending the spatula through the air to neatly divide the omelet. "Now, does anyone want to fill me in on where Charles is, exactly? And why we moved to a safe house in the middle of the ocean?" he calls over his shoulder, directing the comment to Emma, who generally has it together better than anyone else in the mansion.

"Charles is in Westchester," Raven answers after a moment. "Erik – he . . . I just came back last night."

"Oh? And what happened, exactly?"

Raven swallows, and the color of her remarkable blue skin dulls to a pale periwinkle as tears glimmer in her golden eyes. Erik narrows his own eyes, setting down the plates with a distinct _thunk_, suddenly nervous. Raven knows very well the nature of Erik and Charles's relationship, and there should be no reason to hide any information about Charles from Erik. They've already discussed the present, and they shared in bits and pieces their painful pasts (Erik has shared about Shaw, and Charles has reluctantly volunteered some information about Kurt and Cain), and they've never faltered in their devotion to each other. Whatever's wrong, Erik wants – _needs_ to know.

"What-is-wrong?" he demands slowly, enunciating each word.

"Charles is paralyzed."

Raven says it too fast, or maybe too slow, but Erik can't tell. His world turns upside down with three words.

Erik staggers away from the stove, suddenly nauseous. Charles, his beautiful, sweet, kind Charles – _paralyzed_? It can't be some sort of genetic disease, Charles has shared every secret he has with Erik since their bonding. They kind of couldn't _help_ learn about each other's nastiest secrets. But – paralyzed?

"What – How – What?"

Raven swallows again, hands clasped tight. "He says the doctors say it's permanent. There's nothing they can do and – oh, God, Erik, why did we ever _leave_?"

Emma looks coolly up at Raven before Erik's brain can start working again. "Pull yourself together, Mystique," she says, sipping at her tea. "You said yourself that Xavier had been hit in the back with a bullet. Did you expect him to just walk away scot-free? From what I've seen, you were lucky he wasn't killed."

And Erik – Erik can't take this anymore.

"When did this happen?" he demands, roughly, and every piece of metal in the room shakes under the force of his fury. Charles _can't_ be paralyzed, he just _can't_. "Why didn't anyone _tell me_?"

In fact – Erik should have _felt_ it, he and Charles are bonded close enough that what one feels the other usually does if it's that intense, and if Charles had been _hit in the back with a bullet_, Erik definitely should have felt it already. Charles might be shielding now, but it's almost impossible to shield effectively against their bond when Charles is undergoing stress or powerful emotions. Erik should have _known_ the very _second_ it happened.

"But – I just _told_ you – they only just got to Westchester last week," Raven says in a small voice.

Erik waves it off. He knows that they'd go to Westchester, and he intends to follow – just as soon as he gets this bit of information out of Raven. "I mean, _when_ did he get hit with a bullet?" Erik amends. "How didn't we know that earlier?"

Raven's grief fades, immediately, and Emma straightens in her chair.

"Magneto," Emma says slowly, "Xavier had already been hit with that bullet before you collected me from the CIA. That was over a year ago."

Erik's knees tremble. That's impossible. Erik _controls_ metal – he would never, ever let a _bullet_ even go _near_ Charles. Just like Charles would never let any telepath harm Erik's mind. When he let Charles bond their mind together, he'd sworn to never let anything he could control harm Charles, no matter what, and that included any weapon a foolish human might try to use against them. He'd _promised_ to never let Charles be hurt, ever.

"No – that – that _can't_ be – No," Erik manages to spit out.

Emma's eyes harden, and suddenly ice pokes at his mind; Emma, searching for something.

He slams his shields up automatically, flooding them with grief, because he knows, instinctively, that Emma dislikes dealing with an outpouring of emotion due to her own conflicted, equally scarred childhood.

"What's wrong with you, Erik?" Raven asks.

Erik wants to rage. He wants to scream, to destroy, to tear this world for pieces for harming the one bit of light that Erik has ever known in the world. _You were never _supposed_ to know my hurts_, he thinks, grieved. He knows, logically, that Charles has already been harmed by Kurt and Cain, even experimented on, but he'd kept for himself the promise that he could shield Charles from the ugliness of the world he knows all too well because it had been the one thing he could possibly offer to someone as good, as powerful, as _beautiful_ as Charles.

And now he's failed.

"What's wrong with _you_?" he snarls, lashing out, blind in his anger. "How can you just – just _stand_ there and tell me Charles is _hurt_?"

Raven flinches.

But Emma – she stands, towering suddenly, her eyes cold and hard as ice.

"Who are you?" she says, quietly, but her voice rings through the room and everyone goes still at it. Erik's forgotten, again, that she, like Charles, is one of the best examples of a camouflaged predator. Telepaths can never be completely harmless, but Emma and Charles are great at making people forget that fact. They are as skilled at manipulating people's minds via body language as they are via telepathy.

"What?"

"Who are you?" Emma repeats. "Your mind is not like Magneto's, because I know he cannot shield that well without the helmet, which he, by the way, imposter, never goes without – so who are you?"

"_What?_"

Erik drops the furthest layer of his shields, enough that Emma can poke around some of his surface thoughts without going too deep. He knows that each mind, to telepaths, is like a different taste or feeling or color, is unique just like every metal is unique to Erik. He knows too that they can never forget what a mind feels like once they've touched it.

Emma's mouth drops. "Oh my god."

"What is it?" Raven asks.

"You – You're Erik Lehnsherr – Magneto," Emma says, staring at him like he's a ghost. "But you're not – _our_ Magneto. You – _You're from a different universe_."


	4. There's Always Another Way

A/N: Thanks to all reviewers! My e-mail is acting up, so I can't really reply via ff, so . . . yeah, I'm going to clutter up the top of these chapters with replies, sorry!

To J: It's okay, when I find a fanfic I like I get totally addicted and refresh it constantly. Especially on the kinkmemes.

To Lola Kristy: I'm sorry for the confusing bits between the two Charles, but yay! It actually made sense to people. (Sorry, I was scared that no one would understand my rambling.) And yeah, I was aiming for a scary Charles, just to prove to Erik that Charles wasn't a pacifistic wimp.

Next chapter coming out in two, three days, promise!

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><p><strong><em>Chapter Three: There's Always Another Way<em>**

~ _1963 Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>After that fun little confrontation, Charles – this strange Charles who seems at once more innocent and less innocent than the Charles Erik knows – vacillates wildly between smothering Erik in apologies and staring at him like he's itching to dissect Erik and find out what makes him tick. In other words, it makes Erik really, really, <em>really<em> uncomfortable, but of course because his shielding is horrible, he can't hide that either.

Charles goes red in the face. "I'm really, really sorry, it's just – you project very loudly," he says apologetically. "I'm used to you – to Erik – being able to shield. Mostly everyone in the house can now, to some degree, so I don't pick up every little thought."

"Can I learn?" Erik asks.

It's not entirely a selfless request. Yes, he hates the idea of being the person who's obnoxiously loud in Charles's head because that is just . . . awkward, but in truth, he just does not want this Charles to see the things he's done. He honestly doesn't know how this Charles might react, and he really would like to keep his head attached to his shoulders and his mind intact at this point.

Charles and Emma share a quick glance.

Erik raises an eyebrow. All around him, he's finding discrepancies with how he remembers things. From where he comes from, he knows Charles and Emma cannot stand each other. This is in part due to their raid on the USSR, as Erik knows Charles wasn't exactly very gentle with Emma when he went digging through her mind and looking for Shaw and his plans, and in part due to the fact that Erik made it very clear that Emma is merely a replacement for Charles in the Brotherhood. He has also made it clear that she is not irreplaceable, and that he is willing and able to break even her diamond form if she goes anywhere near Charles. So perhaps it is a mix of Erik and Charles's fault. But in the end, the result is the same: the two telepaths, while not loathing each other because that wouldn't be ladylike or gentlemanly, really don't like each other.

But here – here and now, it seems, Emma and Charles have overcome that. Somehow they've bonded over their mutual gifts of telepathy, and they seem to look to the other for advice on telepathy when they themselves are not sure.

Of course, they could also just be conversing via telepathy and Erik wouldn't know it.

"It's rather difficult to learn how to shield properly," Emma says slowly, finally, looking away from Charles. The lack of hostile nonchalance from her is quite bizarre, which probably says something very sad about the relationship between her and Erik.

"Why?"

Emma chews at her lip, a display of vulnerability that makes Erik blink. "Because if you don't shield right, it's like someone's waving a sign saying 'look over here' and it just makes it _harder_ to keep out," Emma explains finally. "And shielding correctly takes immense practice. There's a reason most telepaths go insane if they don't learn to shield in time."

"And that's with telepaths," Charles adds smoothly. "Our minds and brains were adapted for shielding. You are a mutant too, but you can't sense telepathy like we can, so it's far harder for you to raise a defense against it."

Erik waves a hand at the other mutants conversing by the door, poring over some kind of plan that Erik is not allowed to see because they still think he's some kind of spy. Only Charles, Emma, Azazel, and Mystique aren't involved, because the former two are trying to talk to him and the latter are eyeing him warily as though he might shapeshift and grab Charles and run away cackling madly in victory.

"But you said _they_ can all shield. So it can't be too difficult."

If kids like Sean and Alex and Hank can do it, Erik can learn too. And honestly, it can't be _that_ hard. . .

Mystique rests a slim hand on Charles's arm. "Yes, it can be hard, Magneto," she interrupts, as if she's the mind-reader and not her brother. "I lived with Charles since I was seven, and I only started really being able to shield when I was twelve. And everyone else has had time to practice – it's been five years since Cuba, for us," she adds.

Erik blinks. Five _years_? God. He can barely comprehend living on to the next year. Finding out Charles had been paralyzed was a blow that he still hasn't recovered from. And he is so, so hopeful that Charles might be able to recover, but –

Well. Mystique is working on that intel. She was supposed to return this morning, actually. . .

But of course, Erik won't be around to hear the report.

"It hasn't been five years for you, has it?" Azazel observes, his voice as quiet and solemn as the Azazel Erik remembers. At least that hasn't changed.

Erik shakes his head. "One year."

Charles and Emma glance at each other again, and then Charles turns and abruptly wanders off to join the kids, who are furiously arguing over some sort of map with a bunch of lines drawn all over it that looks suspiciously like the inner structure of a fortress. At least a half-built one, anyways. Erik blinks in surprise before realizing that there was a telepathic conversation he wasn't privy to. Emma nods at Mystique, who shrugs and leans against a chair, while Azazel smirks.

Yet another telepathic conversation he wasn't privy to.

"I'm going to place some shields around your mind, if you don't mind," Emma informs him. "I won't read anything from you, I promise."

Erik glares at her suspiciously. The Emma he remembers has telepathy that feels like cold ice is being thrown down his shirt. Charles at least was gentle, and felt nice and warm and comforting. Emma generally feels like someone is shoving an ice pick into your eye, if the screams of the humans they've captured are anything to go by, and she is far less delicate.

"Why you?" he demands roughly.

The blonde telepath rolls her eyes. "Because my specialty is shielding," she replies, her voice sharp and smooth. "Charles's gift lies in projection. So I make the shields."

Well.

You learn something new every day.

"But you both are telepaths," Erik protests, wondering if he can safely make it out of the door before he's cornered. Judging by the tensely coiled body of Mystique and the fact that Azazel is definitely keeping an eye on him, most likely not, but he'll take his chances with a teleporter over a telepath.

Emma laughs, but it's gentle, not the mocking trill Erik is used to. "No two mutations ever manifest the same, Magneto. Haven't you realized that yet? Telepathy is one of the most diverse of them all. We both can read minds, yes, but I am much better at blocking people out or placing mental barriers, like shields, while Charles is much better at long-range projection and planting suggestions. So, I'll be the one placing the shields."

Erik frowns. There is a loophole here, he can feel it –

Ah.

"If Charles is better at reading minds, won't he be able to get through the shields?"

The corners of Emma's mouth turn down, which for her is about as expressive as an outright glare. He's not sure if she's trying to figure out how to explain some telepath-thing he doesn't understand or if she's upset that he found the loophole. But she offers no response, so Mystique steps forward.

"Believe it or not, Magneto, but my brother generally respects people's boundaries," the shapeshifter says, her voice as even as her eyes are furious. Blue flickers over her glorious scales, and then suddenly she's Charles, replicated right down to the tiny white scar over his knuckles and his tasteless cardigans and ingrained British accent. "I never enter someone's mind without permission or an emergency situation."

Now that . . . is downright creepy.

"Raven," Charles says disapprovingly from across the room.

Mystique laughs. "Sorry, couldn't resist!" she calls back.

Erik takes it back. It is far creepier seeing Charles talking to another version of Charles. In that case . . . what if his Charles and this Charles ever met? Actually – Erik stiffens. This Charles has an Erik already, someone he clearly cares for to the point where they apparently are rather free with the kissing and hugging. Erik's not so sure that he wants to meet that Erik.

Azazel leans over and pushes at Mystique's shoulders with his tail, pushing them a tad forward and giving her posture that slumped ease of Charles's posture. "Better," he says. "Your brother does not stand as straight as you."

She smiles at him even as she ripples back to herself. Her control really is impressive, although of course, she has had a very long time to learn her brother's habits to be able to replicate him. The Mystique Erik remembers is not yet there, because while she can easily replicate someone's voice and body, but it's much harder for her to sustain that illusion for very long periods of time. It was part of her training, at the mansion, where she tried to fool people into thinking she was someone else, but of course she was slightly limited, as she couldn't fake Charles's telepathy or Erik's metalkinesis, so they could easily tell it was her and not the other.

This Mystique, though . . . She could probably get away with pretending to be Charles.

Emma takes a step forward and rests a hand on the side of Erik's face, eyes narrowed in concentration. He feels the faintest of flutters at the edge of his mind, which once he would have associated with Charles being playful or too tired to shield right, and then nothing.

"Done?" he asks.

Emma eyes him. "You felt it." It's not a question.

"I've had time to get used to the feeling." Erik offers no explanation. He doesn't intend to try and explain to these people that he's already familiar with what a telepath feels like because he slept with one.

Across from the room, Charles claps his hands, and everyone looks to him. "All right, everyone over here," he orders. Mystique and Azazel and Emma stride over without a single hesitation, joining the crowd around what Erik guesses is some sort of tactical planning table. Erik waits a moment, and then, when Charles doesn't say anything against it, moves to peer over his shoulder. "We're just going to finish where we left off yesterday, and then we can suit up tonight. So. Hank, is the Blackbird ready to go?"

Hank nods. "I've just got to run some last minute checks, and we're ready to go."

"Excellent. Angel, do we have everything ready?"

The winged mutant grins at the telepath. "We're ready. I got everything put aside for weeks, Professor. If we're missing any intel, it's because Mystique didn't get it."

"Emma was responsible for that bit," Mystique objects.

Emma snorts. "Sugar, you were the one who tipped me on who to read. If there's anything missing, blame your sister, Professor."

"Why is it always _my_ fault?" Mystique whines, sounding, deliberately Erik thinks, like a little girl.

"Dear children," Charles chides, sounding amused as he glances at them. "If we could settle down and make a decision? This isn't going to make its mind up for us anyways. And if we're missing intel, well – we went into Chicago with far less information than what we have now, at the last count, and – "

At Charles's mention of Chicago, a collective shudder goes around the room.

"Professor, do me a favor and never pull that trick again," Azazel says after a moment, apparently speaking for the group. "Magneto would never forgive us if we let it happen again." He pauses. "The cutlery hasn't been the same since."

Charles scowls. "Well, Magneto isn't here, but we need to get this done now or we'll lose the opportunity."

Emma scans her nails, and then apparently decides that it's safe to tap them against the edge of the tactical board. "I never said we didn't agree, honey – we're just trying to keep the iron in our blood safe," she comments.

Charles sighs. "Erik won't hurt you."

Sean winces, and mutters, "Tell that to my last wing set."

Erik watches the interaction with a mix of interest and guilt. The group here flows so seamlessly, among the Brotherhood and the X-Men, that he feels distinctly like an outsider. Normally, that doesn't bother him, as he is indeed an outsider in many circles, but usually he takes pride in being that outsider – he is proud of being a Jew and proud of being a mutant. But now, it's not the case; this is a _family_, an odd family, but a family nonetheless. And if there's anything that Erik might have wanted more than anything, it would have been a family. On the other hand, despite the clear differences between the two teams, somehow they've made it _work_. Somehow. And Erik is very interested to know how, because until today he'd thought it'd be impossible to get the two groups to ever act civilly to the other, much less get along.

Charles waves a dismissive hand at Sean, and then Charles turns to the group at large, hesitating only a moment. It's clear, Erik decides, that he is the default leader of the group, but it seems like he doesn't lead alone.

Erik wonders who he might regard as a partner for leading this rag-tag group of mutants. Mystique? No – she's settled too comfortably into the role he remembers, the role of second-in-command. Emma? No, she too is simply a second-in-command, ready to take over if need be, but not wanting to do so if not required to. Sean and Alex and Hank and Angel are too young, and Azazel seems too bored by the prospect of leading to try, and Janos is too quiet to lead. And that leaves –

Erik feels the floor fall out from under him.

God, it has taken far too long for him to come to this conclusion. After all, Charles isn't paralyzed here. And he didn't seem to find it odd when Erik kissed him.

Something changed, somewhere. Something. Somehow.

He steps to Charles's side and feels an overwhelming urge to wrap an arm around Charles's waist, or kiss his temple, or even just hold the telepath against him. It would simply seem _right_, because Erik can see, now, how Charles seems to be floundering just a little bit, because while he is a natural leader, he is not used to leading this group alone.

Somehow, the other Erik is supposed to lead it with him.

"So, as of the moment, it's agreed that there are three mutant subjects," Charles says, jolting Erik back to the present. "Our first priority should be their rescue. Which means _no_ killing of the scientists."

Azazel grumbles, shifting. "They're not innocents, Professor," the teleporter protests. "And they need to learn from their mistakes."

"But not all of them are guilty," Hank objects.

"Sugar, it's not like what's going on is a _secret_," Emma points out. "You can't hide everything from anyone. Unless you're a complete idiot and can't come up with four for two plus two. In which case, we would merely be helping evolution along a bit."

Alex bristles at Hank's side. "Humans aren't _less_ evolved," he argues. "Mutants just happen to be more evolved. We can't condemn them all for the actions of a few. And some of them have _families_."

This, Erik feels, is more natural. Here he can start to see the lines being drawn, the chasm that drove Charles and him apart in Cuba. Alex has always been more of Charles's student than Erik's, because although Erik can understand him better, Charles has perhaps offered a peaceful way Alex wants more than Erik's way. Which Erik can understand, of course, since he too was sorely tempted by Charles's way. And Hank too, he's always been Charles's student.

"They do because we don't," Mystique says quietly.

It's a low blow, Erik concedes, but it gets the point across, at least. A lack of tact is something this Mystique has in common with the one Erik remembers.

Charles gives Mystique an offended look. "And what am I, then?"

The tension dissolves abruptly, and the lines begin to blur again as Azazel lays a hand on Mystique's shoulders while Sean and Alex come up with identical grins and Emma smirks wordlessly at Charles, whose scowl only deepens.

"Charles, much as I love you, do remember that we met because I was trying to steal from your kitchen."

"Regardless," Charles said firmly, "if we spend all of our time killing off the guards, we will lose two opportunities: one, for Emma and me to go through their minds and find out if there are any other plans, and two, in case there are any mutants who need medical attention. So – are we agreed that the prisoners should be our first priority?"

After a moment, Azazel flicks his tail. "Our brothers and sisters should come first," he agrees grudgingly.

They go around the table, like it's some sort of democracy, and vote, with almost everyone agreeing with Charles's point. It's . . . unnerving. Erik had been thinking that there might be some major fighting, and instead there was just a sort of . . . civil disagreement, polite, cool, and well-worn, as if they were used to arguing, and used to finding a common solution.

"So you're just going to let them get away?" Erik demands, angered by how easily his Brotherhood has caved.

Charles blinks at him. "God, no," he says, as though the idea had never crossed their mind. "I said that we couldn't kill the guards, so incapacitation is on the table. By any means possible," he adds in a resigned tone, and Azazel and Janos grin simultaneously. "After that, Emma and I will go through their minds and remove the necessary memories, as agreed upon with the group. And if proves necessary to remove someone . . ."

"And who decides that, you?" Because if Charles is in charge, everyone will all be dancing through the fields and holding hands.

Charles's face closes off for a moment, tightening as if he's in physical pain, and then impassiveness washes over his face. "It's a group decision," Charles answers after a moment. "Neither Emma nor I have the right to make that decision without outside opinions being weighed in. Well. I think this is all set. We assemble at nineteen hundred hours in the hanger, everyone; make sure you get plenty of rest and eat dinner beforehand."

Then the telepath leaves, nearly running from the room.

Mystique sighs, explosively and angrily, and immediately gets right in his face. "I have no idea what the relationship between you and whoever the hell you know is," she snarls, very scary for someone who's at least a head shorter than Erik. "But you listen to me. Charles is _not_ someone that you can make that kind of accusation against, got it? Charles has done more for mutants you will ever know* – much less even begin to be able to appreciate properly. You've seen what he's willing to do for someone he l – "

"Likes," Hank interjects suddenly.

Mystique shuts her mouth, looking suddenly shy after her tirade, and then quickly leaves the room, shadowed by an unusually concerned looking Azazel.

Erik looks round at Emma, who is now lounging in the chair that Charles used to sit in during their chess matches. This does not help. He raises an eyebrow at her, knowing that she knows both what is going on and knows that he wants to know what is going on.

She tilts her head, studying him. Finally, she says, "You already know, Magneto. Why are you asking me anything? If you want the sap story between Charles and Erik, go bother Mystique."

"I know that Charles and Erik are . . . involved," he decides. "What I want to know is _how_ it happened."

Emma studies her nail with years of honed nonchalance. But he can see the tension in her frame. She knows more than she is willing to say. And Erik is willing to wait for as long as it takes for this story to come out. Because he _needs_ to know why this universe is so dramatically different from the one he remembers, the Charles he loves for his innocence and his pacifism, that he is willing to tear apart a stranger's mind for _Erik_.

Emma stands and gives an elegant shrug. "You tell me, Magneto. I was in CIA custody during this whole Cuba fiasco. What I know, I know because I've gleaned it from the minds of the people around me. If you want the full story, then come along tonight and find out."

Erik blinks. "You want me to come _along_ with this extraction?" It sounds – not dangerous – but Erik didn't think they trusted him enough to bring him along. The extraction sounds _delicate_. And as eager as Erik is to tear apart the humans who've tortured his brothers and sisters, he isn't sure that he's willing to cross this new, different Charles.

"But of course," Emma purrs.

Erik doesn't think this is a good idea anymore. But he figures that this can't get any worse than it is. After all, he's already seen the impossible happen: Charles isn't paralyzed, and the Brotherhood and the X-Men are actually able to cooperate. One more impossible thing probably won't change things too much. But _something_ changed on that beach in Cuba, and Erik is willing to do what he must to try and find out how.

"Magneto."

Erik looks up. Emma is standing by the doorway, already shimmering in her diamond form, her eyes hard and knowing.

"Do not kill unless we tell you that it's all right," she says quietly.

"Humans won't hold to the same rules."

The glance she gives him then is almost pitying, and he hates it to the depth of his hearts. "There's always another way to do things, Magneto. Which means that your way? Isn't always right. And if you push too far, you'll find out just how far Charles is willing to go. So ask yourself – do you really want to find out?"

Erik hesitates.

"If it gets me the information I want."

Emma sighs. "Then just _ask_, Magneto," she says, sounding world-weary. "It's not that difficult. I know it's _you_ we're talking about, but still. Just ask. You'll get more information that way than through provoking a war, trust me."

"What if I don't?"

"Then you'll be in for a fun time until you go home. And it won't be for your sake, either. It'll be for Erik's."

And she seals the promise with the sickly sweet smile that Erik knows means that all promises are off the table if – or when – that time comes. And Erik wonders exactly how his counterpart has achieved such loyalty despite abandoning the principles that Erik has always believed in – and yearns, just for a moment, that he could be that Erik, be the Erik who can laugh and stay and be in love with Charles.

Just for a moment.

* * *

><p>* = This was a quote spoken by Magneto to Pyro in X-Men 3: The Last Stand. Not sure if it's quite the same, but the sentiment is similar.<p> 


	5. Plan for the Worst, Hope for the Best

To Chrysanthemum: Well . . . as long as you're okay with the difference not being all that big or original, the details shall be coming out . . . hmm, actually next chapter, I think. And here you have the older Erik's reaction.

To wordonawing: Thanks! I just wanted something unique, as even though I don't really touch upon it, I know there was some intense homophobia during this time period, so I couldn't have them get wedding rings like normal people, so I went, "Ok, they are two strong mutants – why don't they use their gifts?" and that was the result. You will get part of the "You let him get SHOT?" reaction in this chapter, though.

To everyone: Thanks! We're about halfway through, people, the wait is almost over.

I already posted this chapter, but I don't like the way it came out. So this is the revised version; the ending is slightly different.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chapter Four: Plan for the Worst, Hope for the Best<em>**

~ _1967 Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>Erik's head really, really hurts.<p>

For one thing, he is not a telepath. Charles and Emma believe he has some minor sensitivity to telepathy due to his abilities on the electromagnetic spectrum, but in the end, he still isn't a telepath. He is not used to keeping his shields so high for so long, and this universe's Emma ("My name is White Queen, Magneto – you'd better remember that") apparently enjoys poking at his mind randomly just to see if she can catch him off guard.

For another thing, he is trying to absorb way too much information right now.

His story is rather simple. He met Charles in an ocean off the coast of Florida in 1962, fell in love with an obnoxious, arrogant, cheeky little genetics professor, finally acknowledged that love in the Westchester estate a month or two later, and then has spent the last five years working with Charles for mutant rights. Currently, they are in the process of their three phase plan: first, to spread the word to other mutants, so they know they're not alone, and to bring them to Westchester if they wish to train or get away from their parents; second, to spread the word to governments and countries that mutants do indeed exist; and third, to prove that they are willing and able to defend their own against humans to ensure that some sort of civil rights bill for them is passed. They've made progress on the first two steps, and some secret progress on the last, but in all, Erik thinks his life is going rather well.

He can't say the same for his twin. Clone. Whatever.

According to Raven – "My name is _Mystique_," she insists, and refuses to listen if he calls her Raven – they broke away from Charles about a year ago, and have since spent their time cleaning up records in the CIA and the USSR to prevent the governments from knowing anything about them. They've also done their first raid on a governmental facility, walking away with two new allies: Toad and Sabretooth.

Erik's a little iffy on both of them. Toad he knows, of course, but not too well, as after Charles and he broke him out, he decided he would be better off on his own, and the last Erik had heard, he was with the Hellfire Club, which is now run by Harry Leland.

Sabretooth . . . He just seems _savage_. Out of control. This isn't the kind of madness from too much war – although, from his mutation, Erik guesses he has seen a lot of war – or from experimentation; this is the kind of madness that even a telepath probably couldn't cure, and that leaves him salivating for blood, no matter whose it is. Erik cannot comprehend why his other twin would let the mutant him, for he seems just . . . too out of control. If it was up to Erik, in his home, he would not have let Sabretooth alone with any of the children, or Charles, or Raven.

But, of course, this is not his home, and he has no control.

And Sabretooth doesn't make things any better when he walks in the door halfway through the conversation, takes one sniff, and sneers, "You stink of the Professor."

Erik raises a cool eyebrow. "And that matters to you why?" he asks, refusing to cave to the mutant. Sabretooth has an extremely powerful healing mutation, Erik knows, and has nails that extend into lethal claws and, to top it off, has fought in almost every single war that has come his way – including the one that landed Erik in a concentration camp. He's a dangerous opponent. But Erik is confident he could defeat him, if it came to blows, because he is not powerless in a lair of metal.

Sabretooth's nose twitches. "Thought we were enemies," he says nonchalantly.

Erik doesn't know how to reply to that.

Thankfully, Raven – Mystique saves him. Her skin ripples, not to change into any other form, but to remind Sabretooth of her own position in the Brotherhood. "And I thought when you signed on, you agreed to follow Magneto's lead," she reminds the mutant. "Or have you changed your mind?"

Sabretooth actually bares his teeth at her at that.

"Not if he's gonna turn around and run crying to his precious little professor," he snaps.

Mystique hisses like a cat, a warning and a statement all in one, and Erik decides he'll wait to see what she does. He wants to know the dynamics of this group, so different from the one he remembers at home. The Raven he remembers is strong-willed, certainly, but seems more . . . centered, grounded than this one. This Mystique seems raw, not fully grounded and slightly off balance, as if her perfect life is missing a puzzle piece. Or two. Or three. Erik can't really read her too well.

"Charles Xavier is one of us," Mystique says, finally. "And if you go after him, you will be sorely mistaken in thinking that he is anything but precious. And anything but helpless."

"He's just a boy," Sabretooth retorts. "And a cripple. What he is _but_ helpless?"

"He's far stronger than every member of this Brotherhood put together," Mystique answers, and her voice is . . . reverent, almost. Delicate. Like Charles is more of a pedestal than a person, and a glass one she's afraid of touching for fear of it breaking. Like she doesn't quite know Charles anymore, of where she stands with him.

Sabretooth snorts. "We'll see when I have my way with him how strong he is."

Erik's on his feet before he can think better of it – but he can't help himself. Charles is more than a friend, more than family, more than a lover to Erik. He is a piece of Erik's very soul and mind, a light in the darkness to lead him home and an anchor to keep him grounded when the ocean grows too strong. With the bonding that tied them together, they need each other so much that the joke of them being soulmates isn't quite a joke. Nothing can break their connection short of death, and Erik knows that Hank privately suspects that should one of them die, the other would quickly follow. In any case, they both are aware that the other would die to defend them, and so Erik can't _help_ but stand. It's instinct, now.

"The Brotherhood does _not_ harm fellow mutants," Erik states, righteous fury ringing in his voice, and he can see how Sabretooth falters. Erik doesn't know the first thing about Brotherhood rules, but he suspects he's gotten this bit right, at least, and if it makes Sabretooth back down, all the better. "Are we clear?"

"But – "

Erik has been in almost perfect control of his mutation for the last four years. He can manipulate things as big as satellites and submarines and as small as hemoglobin and electromagnetic particles. Charles helps, of course, but the point is that Erik has never lost control yet, not even in the throes of some of their worst arguments that left them both avoiding each other like the plague for days on end.

He lets that control slip, now, because this is _Charles_ they are talking about, and because without Charles, Erik would never have reached this kind of mastery, and he suspects his other twin hasn't.

Around him, the room vibrates under the force of his fury, and items shift and dance and levitate as he unleashes the tiniest bits of his ability just enough to look like he's losing control.

"_Are we clear?_"

Sabretooth bares his teeth, but he ducks his head. He won't challenge Erik if Erik stands firm, he can see that now, and he intends to keep it in place. He doesn't think that his other twin would exactly protest the decision, because Erik knows that his other twin had the damnable helmet that renders him completely immune to Charles's powers. If his other twin really did want Charles out of the way, he would have taken care of him by now.

"Now leave," Erik orders.

When Erik resumes his seat, he finds Mystique looking at him with a strange look in her eyes. It's not quite respect, but some kind of strange recognition.

"What?" he asks, letting the power fade from his voice.

"You remind me of him."

Erik blinks. "I would hope so, seeing as we're practically identical twins except for the last five years."

Mystique shakes her head. "Not like that. I meant . . . I never realized how close they were." At Erik's raised eyebrow, she elaborates, "Magneto and my brother. I mean, I see you know – how you lost control when Sabretooth threatened Charles – and I know you're in love with him, but I never . . . I never guessed that Magneto might actually love him."

Erik feels his other eyebrow join the first. From his own memories, he knows Raven was the first to piece it together. Granted, it was because she walked into the hallway just in time to see Erik leaving Charles's bedroom a week after Cuba dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing the day before, but still. She had already suspected for a while, and she had given Erik a lecture he still can almost perfectly remember, starting with the infamous, "So, you and my brother – there are some things you might need to know. . ." and ending with threats to break Erik's legs, castrate him, and possibly rip his heart out and burn it.

(Charles had woken up and started laughing in Erik's head by then, so Erik hadn't really paid all that much attention to Raven about twenty minutes into her spiel. She, unfortunately, did notice and clonked him over the head, but that's another story.)

"Why not?" Erik inquires, curious.

Mystique hesitates. There is an almost . . . guilty look in her eyes. "I don't know. I just never thought about it, I guess."

"You have a problem with Charles liking men?" Erik feels the knots in his chest coil, slightly. He can remember, vividly, Charles's fear the first time Erik had finally confronted him about the almost longing stares, the way he'd shaken his head too quickly and flinched away from Erik's touch when Erik reached out to reassure him, and most definitely the way Charles had stared at him after they had kissed, fearful and in awe and slightly dazed. Erik had been surprised and clueless then, but he knows now that that fear wasn't born of simple fear of rejection, but the far more intense fear that Erik might laugh him off, or worse, think him ill and turn him in. Apparently, Kurt Marko had been in rather a similar position, and taken it out by being at once intensely homophobic and intensely obsessed with a young Charles's looks.

A longer pause, now, and Erik's heart sinks. He knows too that Charles has always been hurt by Raven's refusal to let Charles read her mind, and to know that Mystique also was uneasy of Charles's liking men . . .

"No," Mystique answers, finally. "I don't have a problem with it. I just . . . I just don't understand why I didn't see it."

"Were you looking?" Erik asks, carefully and tactfully as he knows how.

He remembers the time they spent at the mansion. And he knows that Charles spent most of it tutoring the boys, while Erik tried to boost Mystique's morale. The siblings hadn't actually spent much time _together_, though. And what time they did, Erik can remember fending off Mystique's clumsy advances as gently as he knew how, until finally she turned up naked in his bed.

Mystique's deep blue skin turns slightly purple, her version of a blush. "I guess not. Charles has never needed watching, really."

Erik really, really disagrees with that statement, but he holds his tongue. In a way, she is right; Charles, as a telepath, is possibly the most self-sufficient person to exist. But Erik knows that Charles craves company and affection and acceptance precisely because he is a telepath, and that his image of being entirely self-sufficient is a facade developed due to years of neglect by his mother. It had fooled Erik first, too, but after they starting sleeping together, Erik learned that Charles was never going to ask for what he wanted, both because he was scared he might compel them via telepathy (so it would never be genuine) and also not used to asking for things and actually getting them. And Erik knows that Charles especially put up that mask for his little sister.

But Charles needs people just as much as anyone else does.

"Charles . . . is a person too, Mystique," Erik says slowly, wondering how to phrase it. "He may seem like he's fine. But he needs people just like you do, just like we all do. You just have to learn to look past his mask. He wants acceptance just like everyone else does."

Mystique looks at him, her gold eyes glittering. "How long did it take you to learn that?"

Erik gives her a grim smile. "A very long time. Charles is very good at hiding what he wants, unfortunately."

"So . . . they were involved?"

"If our universes were alike up to Cuba, yes, I would say so. For the sake of you being his little sister, and so mine, I refuse to say anything more."

"Good," Mystique says fervently. "I really don't want to hear."

The doors open, and Emma, Azazel, Angel, and Janos enter, all wearing expressions of discontent. They at least have come to a decision, though, it seems, which is good; Erik has been getting bored just sitting here.

"We need you out of the way," Emma says without preamble. "You don't know anything Magneto does, and you don't act like him. You can't hope to fool everyone for too much longer. I can sense people already getting suspicious. We can lead the Brotherhood in your absence. So. Mystique, do you think your brother will agree to take in a stray for . . . however long this is?"

"Charles would never say no a mutant in need of aid," Mystique replies.

Emma looks to Erik, and says, "So it's agreed. Yes?"

As she speaks, he can feel the ice cold creeping around the corners of his mind. He raises an eyebrow, and slams his shields up as high as they can possibly go at the same time that he takes a hold of her necklace and earrings and _tugs_, gently but insistently.

"Stay out of my mind, White Queen," he demands, using the moniker he's been told she uses now. "I'm not a telepath, true. But there is only one person allowed to rummage in my mind, and it is not you. Should you try again, I am not averse to throwing you out mentally and physically. Do keep in mind that Charles himself made the walls in my mind," he adds, when she seems to hesitate. "And I've already broken that diamond form of yours once."

Emma sniffs and gives him a cold glance before sweeping from the room with all the iciness her name implies. Janos and Angel share a glance and then follow her out, but Azazel holds out a hand.

"You know where his home is?" Erik asks warily.

Azazel tilts his head to the side. "How do you think the Professor got home from the hospital?" he retorts. "From Florida to Westchester is a long drive for a cripple."

Erik's hands clench, against his will, but the metal doesn't shake around him. Azazel's feelings towards Charles aren't like Sabretooth; Azazel merely just doesn't _care_. Which still bothers Erik, but he'll take it over having Sabretooth threatening Charles's wellbeing.

A _poof_, a sense of rushing blackness, the burst of sulfur, and an eye-blink later Erik is standing on the Westchester mansion front lawn. Another _poof_, and Mystique is standing beside him with Azazel, holding out the damned helmet, bright eye-watering scarlet red and exemplifying almost everything Erik hates in the world.

"No," Erik says before she can say anything. "Absolutely not."

Mystique narrows her eyes. "You're a sitting duck against Charles without the helmet, Magneto."

"I know Charles." _Better than you._ "And he won't hurt me. Besides, I can shield myself a little. Not enough against Charles to keep him out forever, but enough to make him pause and listen."

"Charles never listens."

And _that_. That. Is probably why Erik is not willing to stay any longer with the Brotherhood. Because he would probably tear the place apart in his anger. Good Lord – they expect Charles to be perfect, and then get mad when he isn't. Which, Erik, realizes, is something he once held Charles up to himself, but still . . . Charles _has_ changed over the time they spent training together before Cuba; he is no longer that same person who brushes off Mystique's concerns. But of course, until she learns to listen, she'll never know.

Erik wonders, privately, if Mystique and Charles's relationship is broken forever, and hopes not.

"He will once he realizes that I'm bonded to Charles's mind," Erik says calmly.

Mystique's jaw drops, but by then, of course, Erik is halfway to the door. Except that it is locked, and Erik really doesn't intend to fight his way through the X-Men, because he knows that his other twin and them have crossed paths enough that they'd probably think he was an enemy and definitely not let him through. So he looks upward, to the study room that has become Erik and Charles's since Cuba, and then reaches for his power and pushes _down_.

He can hear Mystique's gasp as he levitates smoothly towards the study room he shares with Charles, but he ignores her. Erik may have complete mastery, but this never gets any easier, and he doesn't feel like plummeting a billion stories down if he loses his grip.

A flick of his hand, and the study window opens. He hauls himself inside and looks around.

It doesn't, actually, look that different from Erik and Charles's. There's the bookcase, still unorganized and bursting to the brim with a mix of the classics, which Erik loves to read to Charles in the original languages as the telepath curls against his side and drifts off to sleep, and genetics books, which can put the entire mansion to sleep within five minutes of Charles reading them. And the huge desk, which is just as cluttered with papers as Erik remembers. And the fireplace with the luxurious rugs and picture-filled mantel.

But when Erik steps closer, differences starts popping out.

The pictures Erik remembers are all happy ones of the last five years: Azazel sneaking up behind Raven to propose to her, all nervous; Hank, gaping in the middle of a lab explosion; Sean and Alex, running away from the camera after shattering _another_ window; Angel and Sean tussling mid-air, practicing aerial assaults; Jean, Ororo, and Scott playing tag on the lawn; Charles, spluttering in the water after Erik had used his powers to upend the snoozing telepath into pool, cardigan and all; and probably some rather unflattering pictures of Erik that Raven takes whenever she's bored, like the one that shows the night after the first anniversary of Cuba, where she had caught them conked out on the rug, leaning against the sofa, the record player still playing, Charles lying between Erik's legs and snuggled fitfully into Erik's arms, Erik with his nose pressed into Charles's hair, the two of them so exhausted that they hadn't even noticed half the team parading past and miming choking noises or (Logan) snorting with the laughter that they'd gotten so drunk they hadn't even made it to the taking-off-of-clothes-in-bed stage.

And the chessboard . . .

It is frozen in the middle – well, more like towards the end – of a game Erik knows intimately. It's the game they played the night before Cuba, which ended in a bitter stalemate, with neither able to gain the advantage of the other, equally matched and equally frustrated.

And there is such a strong layer of dust over it that when Erik kneels down to get a better look, the resulting dust cloud makes him choke.

"You've got some real nerve showing your face here, bastard."

Startled, Erik stands and whirls to face a scowling Alex, whose arms are crossed. He looks the picture of teenage defiance, but he looks . . . older, shattered, more _broken_ in a way Erik does not see in the Alex he remembers. Like this Alex has grown up too fast, but has no choice. Like –

Like Erik is the enemy.

Erik steps forward, head held high but hands clearly visible. He didn't come here for a fight. "Alex," he says, trying to remain as polite as possible, "there's been an . . . unexpected problem. I need to see Charles. If you wouldn't mind getting him, please?"

Alex's scowl deepens. "We've had an 'unexpected problem' since you left. If you'd wanted to talk to the Professor then, you should've done it then. Now get out of our house."

"Alex."

Erik's shoulders sag in relief. He knows that voice better than anything else he knows.

Charles.

But when Charles appears in the room at Alex's side, it's all Erik can do to keep standing. In fact, he doesn't even manage that. He falls painfully to his knees as they give out, his head ringing with noise and his vision going fuzzy. He cannot process that. He can't. He _can't_.

_Charles_ is _in_ a _wheelchair_.

"Charles," he rasps.

Charles gives him the worst attempt at a smile he's ever seen in his _life_. "Oh, it's quite all right, my friend," he says wearily, his voice caught between sarcastic to inflict pain and just plain pain. "This does tend to happen, you know. People's spines don't take too well to getting hit by bullets, it seems, but I expect you knew that already.

"Alright, you've seen him," Alex snaps. "Now get the hell out of here."

Erik pushes himself to his feet, feeling his spine straighten. He's faced down Nazis and bloodthirsty, insane mutants – he won't give way before a belligerent little kid.

"This is my home too," he says, and he means it.

"Not anymore."

"Alex," Charles sighs, sounding exhausted and broken in a way that makes Erik's heart tremble. Charles never gives up like this. Ever.

"He deserves it," Alex mutters.

Erik sighs. Apparently no one is going to listen to him. And Charles isn't reading his mind, which is – weird. The Charles Erik knows, of course, is polite enough to not read everything about everyone he meets, but he is usually carefree with scanning the surface thoughts he can never quite block out.

"Onslaught," he murmurs gently.

Charles's eyes snap to him, and fear flicks in those blue depths as Charles's hands clench so tightly on the arms of the wheelchair that his knuckles go white. The fear cuts at Erik's heart – but it's done its job. Charles is listening.

"Where – Where did you hear that name?" Charles asks, swallowing hard.

Erik walks slowly and carefully to Charles's side, hands where Alex can see to demonstrate that he means no harm, and then kneels in front of Charles's wheelchair, so that they are about eye-to-eye. Charles is apparently unwilling to read Erik's mind, but he _has_ to if he is to understand, and Erik is not skilled enough at projecting to a telepath who is refusing to listen to him without a bond in his head to connect them. So this is what needs to be done.

Erik takes Charles's hand and presses it, gently, to his temple. "Read my mind."

Charles jerks as if he's been electrocuted, but Erik flicks the brakes on with a nudge of his mind so that Charles can't roll away and merely holds on tighter to his hand.

"Erik . . ."

"I mean it, Charles. Read my mind."

Charles trembles, his eyes wide with something very close to fear. The fear tears at Erik's heart, because this is _Charles_ – and Charles should never be scared of Erik, not ever. He's hurt Charles, he knows; they've sparred, for one thing, and Erik doesn't pull his punches when sparring, and they fought for real on the beach, leaving them both bruised, and they've argued more than enough to know what buttons to push to make their words _hurt_ when they argue. But Erik's last clear memory of Magda is her before she ran off, fear making her entire body tremble as she stared at him in horror, and while Erik claims he is a monster, he knows himself well enough to know it would hurt him terribly for Charles to regard him as a monster.

"I'm not scared of you," Charles whispers, but his voice cracks.

_Yes, you are_, Erik projects, bundling the thought in Charles's direction the way he has learned how. _Don't be. Read my mind. Please._

He doesn't expect Charles to sink into his chair, defeat written all over him. He definitely doesn't expect Charles to say, dully, "Why should I? You've made your choice, and so have I. Now I am dealing with the consequences."

Erik stares in shock. It sounds like . . . like . . .

"You blame yourself," he realizes in horror. He has never seen Charles looking so . . . _broken_ before, and it tears at Erik as nothing ever has before. He loves Charles for his unfailing optimism – to see it shattered so cruelly by his other twin is the worst thing he's ever known. He can't imagine why his other twin would want to drag the man he loves down the path that turns Charles into _this_, this broken, defeated shadow.

Charles gives him a bitter smile. "I was the one who tackled you, Erik. And the one who stood up when Moira began shooting."

Erik shakes his head, feeling his own hands start trembling. This kind of Charles is horrifying in the worst way possible, and he can't help his own desire to tear his twin to pieces. Erik _controls_ metal – he is not called the master of magnetism and metal for no reason. How could his twin let the man he loves be _shot_?

"He deflected the bullet, Charles, into your _spine_," he says, teeth gritted. "That could never be your fault."

Erik realizes his mistake about a second after Alex does.

"_You_ did this," Alex hisses. "All right, you've seen the Professor. Now get out this house."

"Where is Moira?"

Charles tries to be nonchalant, but pain rings in his eyes. "I sent her away."

Erik clutches at the nearest chair, trembling, trying to keep his rage under control. He's angry at Mystique, at Moira, at Charles, at _himself_ – how could he let something he _controls_ harm the man who has saved him and helped him and loved him above all else? How could he? And yet – Charles's wheelchair is metal – if he warps it, there will be major problems – he cannot, cannot, _cannot_ hurt Charles –

"Read my mind, Charles," he says through gritted teeth. "Read it so I can calm down before I tear this damn mansion down."

Minutes later, he feels the familiar touch of Charles's mind, so gentle and hesitant and warm.

His muscles relax, automatically and instinctively, before he can stop himself. He's grown accustomed to Charles's touch over the years, enough that Charles can calm him with but a touch to his mind and perhaps a hand on his arm. He trusts Charles enough to let Charles bring him back towards serenity and away from the razor-edges of despair and rage.

Charles inhales sharply behind him. "That's impossible."

Erik turns to him, finally calmed down, to see Charles staring at him with a jaw halfway to the floor, his anger forgotten for the moment.

Erik musters a small smile. "I wish it were true."

"How . . .?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Erik replies, crossing his arms. "I woke up and ran into the Brotherhood, and they wanted me out of the way, so they sent me here. And – I had no idea that you were – had been – _mein Gott_, I didn't realize that things had gone so badly. . . I merely though we had split off, I didn't realized I had actually _crippled_ you – "

"Don't apologize; it wasn't your fault," Charles says sharply.

_But you feel it is_, Erik adds silently.

Charles flinches.

Erik stares down at him, and wonders how this disaster could have possibly happened – Erik, separate and alone with a helmet on his head that his mother's murderer wore; Mystique, bitter and raw and whirling around with her own brother as her sworn enemy; and Charles, dear, sweet, lovely Charles, paralyzed and in mourning for everything he has lost just when he thought he had it all – and says seriously, "Charles, I think we need to talk."


	6. Sometimes You Just Have to Believe

A/N: I didn't like how the last chapter ending came out, so a revised version is up now. Here we finally see why this world is different from the canon!verse; I hope the explanation makes sense and actually works out. The italics indicate a memory.

Tell me what you think!

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chapter Five: Sometimes You Just Have to Believe<em>**

~ _1963 Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>Well, Erik is sure that one thing hasn't changed: the uniforms are still atrocious.<p>

He will allow that they are sturdy. The material is light and strong, and there's still plenty of metal woven into the suits – enough that Erik could easily form several knives if he needed to. (Charles's suit has the most metal of them all, which serves to soothe Erik somewhat in a way that irritates him too; Charles was the one to tell Erik he didn't want Erik anymore, so he shouldn't be reassured that he's still able to defend Charles.) It's still bullet-proof – not that Erik cares, _he's_ bullet-proof, but the sentiment is nice – and all that.

But it is _still_ atrocious.

Charles catches his expression as he puts it on, and he's surprised to see the telepath smile. It's a strange smile, almost to himself but at the same time, Erik gets the sensation that it is directed at him.

As soon as he thinks that, Charles looks up and the smile vanishes.

"My apologies," he says. "I . . . I forget that you're not Erik."

Erik's quite sure that, short of manifesting a secondary mutation of telepathy, he wouldn't be able to read Charles as well as Charles seems to expect him to. Even he spends the next five years with Charles. Erik prides himself on having the ability to read people well, but Charles has a rather large advantage with telepathy and is relatively hard to read when he's not making an effort to be easily read. When someone can look at you and read everything about you in one glance, body language and expressions are far less important, and Charles almost never uses body language unconsciously like everyone else; if he ever uses it, it is because he is deliberately trying to be seen as something.

"And how would I be able to understand that?"

Charles tilts his head and then taps at his temple. "I bonded with Erik a few years ago," he explains. "It's . . . like a direct telephone line to his thoughts, I guess, and to mine, if he reaches for me. He acts kind of like an anchor."

"He trusts you a lot."

Charles gives him a flat look and shakes his wrist, making the bracelets chime. "We trust each _other_," Charles corrects.

Erik still can't imagine surrendering control of his mind like that. To anyone. Perhaps not even Charles. Perhaps _especially_ not even Charles. Erik has fought hard for every scrap of control that he has over his life, and he intends to keep it as such.

Charles smiles sadly. "Yes, I know," he says gently. "Erik was suspicious in the beginning too. But I should remind you that Erik can shut me out just as well as I can."

"You're the telepath, not me."

"And if I was only able to love someone I was controlling, this world would be a sad world indeed," Charles says flatly, suddenly ice-cold with fire burning in his eyes, chillingly close to the Charles who had attacked Erik's mind and nearly forced him to strange himself. "You have no idea how many times I've wondered – "

But Charles cuts himself off, and the fire dies as he reasserts control, becoming once again that meek little professor Erik had first met.

"Never mind," he says wearily. "Forget it. Yes, Emma?"

The diamond telepath pokes her head into the room, not at all ashamed of being caught eavesdropping, the light reflecting off of the diamond facets of her secondary form to cast rainbows all over the room. She is dressed in a suit too, Erik notes, despite being in her diamond form, but the colors are more muted and tend more to the white scheme the White Queen prefers. She looks almost fashionable, and Erik feels . . . almost jealous.

Emma smirks at him as her diamond form vanishes. "I can turn diamond, Magneto, I don't have to worry as much about mortal concerns like you."

_I am just as bullet-proof as you_, Erik thinks.

Both Charles and Emma wince. Charles actually covers his ears, almost like a child shielding himself from a sound too jarring, before catching himself and staring at Emma. They engage in some sort of telepathic "your-turn" war before Charles huffs and stalks off towards the other rooms where the rest of the team is preparing for the extraction. Emma pats his shoulder condescendingly as he passes, and Charles responds with a thought that makes Emma blanch.

Erik raises his eyebrow. "I don't project that loud."

"You do if you can't project properly," Emma says, scowling. "A telepath at the end of the road could have heard that thought. You don't know how to do it right yet. It's like yelling into the dark and hoping someone is close enough to hear – but Charles and I are right next to your mouth and you're still yelling."

"Charles never winced before."

"Honey, Charles has spent the last four years bonded to Erik's mind. He can't help but know Erik's surface thoughts now. He's not used to being shouted at."

Erik shudders at the mere thought of being so open and easily read.

Emma gazes coolly at him. "Be more polite."

"Why?"

"Charles wouldn't ever control you. Or Erik. Or any of else, actually."

"I'm certain."

Emma's gaze cools by a hundred more degrees. She leans against the door, the very picture of casualness, but there is a weary tension in her eyes that Erik isn't familiar with. The White Queen he knows spends as much time with a face so impassive that he thinks it might be frozen in that expression. She's like him – so used to being taken advantage of that she knows better than to give an enemy a way into her mind.

"Imagine if you were like him, then," Emma offers suddenly. "Able to hear every single thought whether you wanted to or not. Knowing every single time when someone is scared of you because of something you can't control. And not only knowing, but _feeling_ it. My telepathy isn't as . . . empathetic as Charles's, but even I can still access a thought and feel about it the same way the original person did. If Charles really wanted, then free will would no longer exist in this world. He could have the whole world lined up to do his biding – I'm strong enough to admit that if he caught me out of my diamond form, he could probably even take over me."

"So?"

Emma's expression hardens, ever so slightly. "So are we mutant and proud _except_ for telepaths, then, Magneto?"

Erik hesitates. She's got a point. And Erik hates hypocrisy more than anything else.

Emma snorts, tossing back her hair. "And you wondered why Charles was so hesitant to sleep with you, Erik?" she taunts, flickering back into diamond form and shimmering in the light. "Why should he? All you do is think that he shouldn't use what he was born with. Imagine loving someone and realizing they thought it."

"White Queen."

Charles's voice in the doorway made them both jump. He raises an eyebrow at them both, and then jerks his head back. "We're ready."

Erik sets aside the conundrum Emma has set in front of him in favor of focusing. Charles has promised a full briefing on their way to the extraction, probably via telepathy to avoid being eavesdropped on, and Erik wants to see this team in action. He's seen Charles's X-Men and his Brotherhood, and they are both lethal in their own ways, but he wants to see how they work together.

His first impression is that they are surprisingly well-organized. They're all packed up and in the Blackbird in ten minutes.

Twenty minutes in, Charles closes his eyes, leans back against the wall, and lifts his hand to press two fingers to his temple. Erik looks around to see everyone else beginning to close their eyes as well, except Hank and Angel, who are flying the plane – but even they seem slightly distracted.

_Can everyone hear me?_

Charles's voice echoes in Erik's mind, startlingly clear, but it seems less of a telephone line and more like a dinner table discussion as others chime in.

_Havoc._ Alex.

_Banshee._ Sean.

_Mystique_. Raven.

_Beast._ Hank.

_Riptide._ Janos.

_White Queen_. Emma.

_Tempest._ Angel.

_Azazel._ The teleporter smirks.

There is a moment of silence, and then Erik sighs and thinks, _Magneto._

Apparently, this is their way of testing the radio, so to speak. He knows he reads it right, because Charles immediately says, _Okay, all accounted for, then. We're going to Alkali Lake in Alaska. There have been rumors, for years, about mutant experimentation. We got confirmation last month. White Queen, Tempest, and Mystique scouted it out and got the information. The CIA tells me that we have today and tomorrow to clear it out for them to move in._

_Angel, Sean – you're going in first,_ Charles states. _Get the guards away from their positions._

There's a vague ripple in the conversation, which Erik realizes means assent.

_Havoc, you're with Riptide, and Mystique and Beast, you're together. Split up once you get inside the facility; I'll try and guide you to the mutants. White Queen and I will go find the director. Azazel . . ._

_I will be around_, the teleporter says.

"And me?"

_You don't need to speak aloud_, Emma tells him.

_What does Erik normally do, then?_ Erik thinks, trying to focus on thinking the words without saying them and beginning to realize just how difficult it is. He ignores the smugness radiating from Emma.

_He . . ._ Charles hesitates. _It depends. He had planned to come with me, just in case the director had anti-telepathy technology with me._

_The helmet?_

A wave of repulsion flows through the conversation, making everyone wince and withdraw momentarily. Erik is disoriented enough that it takes him a while to realize that the repulsion is coming from _everyone_, not just the two telepaths, but he chooses not to comment.

_Will the director have it?_

_I didn't see any files on it, or records,_ Mystique interjects.

_Then I'll go with you and Beast. I guess you can just . . . call me, if you need my help?_

Charles sends across agreement. Then the conversation abruptly vanishes, and Erik can no longer make out the minds of the team, so he opens his eyes to find snow everywhere, blinding him for a moment. They've clearly spent longer talking to each other via telepathy than it felt, Erik realizes, and for some reason it doesn't unnerve him.

"We're here," Beast says unnecessarily.

After that, it's a flurry of movement. Angel and Sean take off their harnesses and stand, moving to the back bay where the door is. Angel unfurls her wings and rotates her shoulders, grinning in anticipation, while Sean merely releases his own wing set and looks entirely too apprehensive. But Charles gives them both nods, and they relax even as the door slides back and sends cold air blowing into the plane, making everyone shiver.

Five minutes after they drop, Erik feels the tell-tale _click_ and _snap_ of guns discharging their bullets, and Charles jerks in his seat.

_They're ready._

The plane banks abruptly to land, and then everyone is standing and checking over equipment. Everyone except Charles, who is staring off into space, sometimes randomly mouthing words, every glazed over. Emma touches his shoulder as she shimmers into diamond, and Charles looks at her, a lost, almost drunken look in his eyes, like he's lost in another world entirely.

"Professor," she says, gently.

Charles snaps out of it almost immediately at the same time that Erik feels the faintest brush against his own mind, and he remembers,_ He acts kind of like an anchor._

_You're not used to doing this on your own, are you?_

Charles winces as he stands. _Strong telepaths are never alone in their head. Focusing on one mind helps block out the rest of the noise around. It's the best explanation I've been able to come up with._

_Okay._

_Okay?_ Charles eyes him nervous as they disembark, running towards the clearing where the facility is. The lake on the other side will prevent the soldiers from running too far away; the way the team is coming is the only way out by land, unless the facility has a plane or a helicopter. _Are you sure, Magneto?_

_If it helps you_, Erik replies hesitantly.

There's a burst of happiness in his mind, and Erik feels a steady throb of warmth somewhere in the back of his mind; if he felt words could describe it, he might say it feels like a radiating ball of _happiness-affection-Charles_ settling between his old memories and his emotions.

"Magneto?"

Erik looks up to find the team facing a series of bolting doors. They wouldn't be able to withstand, say, a blow from Havoc, but Erik understands – if they blew up the facility, all the records might be lost, and the mutants held there might be hurt. They're not going subtle; they just want to get in cleanly. Yet apparently, despite all the work Charles has done, there is nothing well-known, for all the doors are metal, through and through, and Erik rips them apart with barely a flicker of a thought. It takes no more effort than a slightly deeper breath.

_Mystique, Beast, take the left tunnel; many of the old records are there, but they require fingerprints._

Mystique and Beast nod as one, and then wheel to run, Mystique already flickering through forms to look more like the soldiers that might frequent the base; Erik guesses that Charles is feeding her the information to copy the people who can get into the records.

_Havoc, Riptide – right tunnel, three doors down, take the stairs down five levels, and that's where they're holding the mutants. Azazel, can you keep an eye on Tempest and Banshee? Magneto, can you come with us? The director, I can't read him, and neither can Emma, but we know he's here, so he must have some kind of anti-telepathy device with him._

Charles gives orders as naturally as breathing, and the team splits so efficiently that it's like they've done this before.

Erik follows Charles and Emma as they run towards a giant room that has doors so thick that Erik wonders, briefly, how they can even open. But he's lifted submarines; moving a door is only slightly difficult.

Guns start firing immediately.

Some of the bullets ricochet off of Emma's diamond form, and she charges determinedly towards the ones near the man cowering in the back. Charles, though, throws himself smoothly to the floor, rolling behind a console, as though he knows exactly how to get out of the way so that Erik is free to simply deflect the bullets everywhere instead of having to hold them stagnant for fear of hitting the telepath, and Erik decimates every single gun in the room within minutes, and then trusses up their owners with them in two minutes.

By then, the director is writhing in Emma's diamond grip as she drags him forward and throws him into the chair.

Charles emerges and brushes himself off, flashing Erik a quick grin as he strides forward. The director – a man Erik recognizes hazily as William Stryker, from the CIA headquarters – trembles in fear before putting on an impassive, bravado façade.

"Professor X, Magneto," he says smoothly. "We've been waiting for you."

That's when Emma rips off the helmet on his head.

Charles smiles. "So have I. So. Would you like to tell us what you've been doing here, or shall we find out ourselves?" His head tilts to the side, a little, and his gaze flickers into the distance before returning to the present. "My team is already on their way down to the labs, I hope you know."

Stryker scowls, and then yelps rather loudly as though he's been pinched.

"And you wonder _why_ I say you deserve to be locked up?"

Charles's smile turns coy and dangerous. Erik is willing to bet that if he wasn't wearing the silly suit, he'd have put his hands in his pockets and leaned against a wall, broadcasting confidence everywhere exactly as he knows how.

In any case, Erik wraps a length of metal around Stryker's throat. "You experimented on our brothers and sisters," Erik replies. "And you wonder why I say _you_ deserve to be locked up?"

"They aren't humans," Stryker snaps, a though it answers anything.

Erik wraps metal around his arms for that.

And then Charles is suddenly standing beside him, one hand pressing gently on his arm, and there is a dangerous look in his eyes, like Charles is finally beginning to shed the harmless human professor illusion he tends to effect whenever he's conscious. Erik has only seen that mask come off a few times – like when Charles had leapt into the ocean to save him, or when he attacked Emma's mind to find Shaw's plan, or when they sparred for the first time.

_Erik, wait a moment._

"Good luck finding a prison that could hold any of us," Charles says simply. "So that's a no."

Stryker _screams_. He writhes as best as he can, but of course Erik didn't give him much leeway for that either. He looks like a man confronting his worst fear times a thousand, over and over; the glazed look over his eye gives away the fact that he's clearly trapped in a telepathic illusion that Emma, still in diamond form, is clearly not responsible for.

The screaming abruptly stops, and for a moment, Erik swears he felt Stryker's heart pause in its beating.

Then it resumes, slow and steady, like Stryker is sleeping, but Stryker doesn't twitch. His eyes remain distant and unfocused, and his body remains slumped as though he has no muscle control and no mind to direct his movements.

Emma whistles. "So we were right."

Charles shakes his head, slowly, like he's trying to shake off something disgusting but has no strength to do so. "Yes, unfortunately. I felt it was better this way," he says, his voice slurred.

Erik stares at Stryker's prone form and feels like the world is spinning. He can't imagine a world where Charles might inflict such pain on another human being. He can't imagine Charles even considering the possibility without automatic rejection. He just _can't_. That is Erik's job. Charles's job is to hold Erik _back_.

Charles gives another one of those weary smiles. _I'm afraid that Erik's influence over me is just as strong is mine over him._

"What did you do to him?"

Emma shrugs. "A version of locked-in syndrome, I believe," she says dismissively. Then she whistles, loud and clear as bells in her diamond form, and then Azazel pops into existence, looking halfway between bored and excited. His tail twitches as if he's a cat ready to pounce, but there is a vague sense of exhaustion around him; clearly, he's been doing a lot of teleporting, although _where_ Erik cannot guess.

"Yes," Charles says, to some question Azazel apparently asked. "Please and thank you."

Azazel nods sharply, a flash of concern flickering through his eyes, and then he says, "I'll come back to see Hank and Angel home. Mystique and the others are already back."

They all join hands, and Erik has one last glimpse of Stryker's frozen, horrified face before they vanish into darkness. Then the study room comes into view, and the clamor of voices makes Erik's vision go a bit fuzzy from all the noise. Mystique is trying to organize the chaos, attempting to simultaneously pull together the files to be recorded and put aside for later while also attempting to settle the three new mutants who are eyeing them with varying degrees of wariness. That chaos goes abruptly silent when Charles straightens and puts two fingers to his temple.

Whatever he says, Erik cannot hear, but the two children relax. One is wearing an odd mask over his eyes, and Charles nods to Alex, whose eyes light up. The other merely stares in wonder at Mystique and Beast, who are trying to gently talk to her.

Emma flickers into diamond form briefly, and the man relaxes. He's strong and behaves like a seasoned soldier, eyes darting around the room to note exits.

"Logan, you're welcome here as long as you like," Charles says, stepping forward. "If not, I can give you whatever you need to go on your way. But you should know that killing Stryker will gain you noting."

The man sniffs. "You smell like him."

Charles smiles dangerously. "I've already dealt with him. You needn't worry about that."

The man snorts. But then he seems to take a closer look around him, and Erik recognizes the glance of someone no longer focused entirely on revenge, but now focusing on the present and trying to make sense of it now that he is shaken out of his rage-filled course. Erik was the same way too, he remembers, after he'd finally forgiven Charles for dragging him out of the water in Florida and acknowledged that he might as well make the best of his new situation.

"Scott, Ororo, Hank and Alex are going to take a look at you, all right? Just to make sure everything's okay. And then you can go pick out bedrooms."

"We can stay here?" the boy blurts, clinging to Alex like he's a lifesaver.

Charles smiles. "If you like." Then he raises his voice. "All right, everyone, good job. We'll debrief tomorrow, but for now – food, showers, checking out, and then bed. I mean it," he adds sharply when Sean opens his mouth.

They all troop away, no protest, and Mystique presses a sisterly kiss to Charles's cheek before sidling away, all elegant poise.

Charles slumps into a chair. Exhaustion fills his frame and saps him of his former presentation of a strong, invincible telepath, leaving behind a simple man trying not to fall asleep and embarrass himself by possibly drooling. Erik feels the tell-tale thump of a heart-beat against metal, and looks over to find Charles rolling the black king between his fingers, his eyes wistful as he gazes into the fire.

"You have some questions for me?" Charles asks quietly.

Erik goes to the seat he used to sit in. This is like the night before Cuba, except with a slight reversal – now it is Erik who is unsure and asking all the questions, and Charles who is unmoving and possessing all the answers.

It is perhaps also quite fitting.

"What happened between us?"

"You mean in Cuba?"

Erik nods. "I . . . I saw you get hit by a bullet. I – I was the one who actually drove it in your spine," he forces out, and he can still feel the clenching _twist_ in his chest at the thought of his beloved Charles hurt by his own hand, like his heart has suddenly been wrenched away. "So why aren't you paralyzed?"

Charles has gone still, unnaturally so, and Erik recognizes the pose as one he adopts, often before he killed the Nazis he tracked. It's the mark of a silent predator ready to spring at any second, and it just . . . it looks so _wrong_ on Charles.

"Ah," he says finally. "I can see where that might be a problem. Would you like me to . . .?"

Charles gestures to his temple.

Erik sighs and leans back in his chair. It would probably be more effective. But he hasn't felt the touch of Charles's mind for so long now that he wonders if he would even notice it. _This_ Charles doesn't count; he's just so different. And yet . . . guiltily, furtively, he _wants_ to feel Charles in his mind again, gentle and accepting and everything that Erik never thought he might find, everything he once was willing to give up to kill Schmidt.

Once was, anyways.

"Yes, fine."

_When Erik opens his eyes again, the first thing he sees is himself. Rapidly approaching. The sun is hot on his face, the suit stifling against his skin, the sand a shifting barrier as he runs. His head is throbbing; he feels like his eyes are ready to fall out and roll around in the dust while his head lolls, disconnected from his body._

_ Then Erik – in Charles's body, Charles's memory – slams into himself._

_ Here, Erik braces himself. He remembers fighting Charles, brutally, like an enemy, instead of a sparring partner, instead of a lover. He still remembers the sting of Charles's face against his fist._

_ But that doesn't happen._

_ Charles doesn't try to pin Erik down, here. He rolls with the momentum when Erik instinctively reacts to roll them, not trying to fight Erik's superior strength and reflexes._

_ Not trying to take off the helmet._

Erik, please.

_ They're still rolling, until finally they bump up against the fallen trunk of a tree and Erik sees himself yank away, pinning Charles's legs down and levering a hand against his throat. He can barely recognize himself – his eyes are wild, like a rabid animal; his face is twisted into a grimace of concentration and destruction more befitting a madman than anything else; there is not even the faintest blink of recognition of who Charles is._

_ Charles goes limp immediately. "Erik – Erik, please, _it hurts_," Erik feels himself say, broken and defeated and in pain._

_ Erik sees himself blink, slowly, and then the hand against his throat relaxes as he sees himself beginning to register what's going on, who this is. Then his face tightens, and Erik sees the missiles pick back up, speeding towards the ships._

_ "They need to die, Charles," he hears his twin say, voice twisted and mad like his face._

_ Pain lances through Erik's mind – fear, anger, confusion, pain, sadness, despair, rage – all bundled up and inescapable. It pounds against his mind with the force of thousands of men, all nearing death, broadcasting frantically, and the pain builds and builds and builds, ringing with the echoes of Schmidt-Shaw's death and the void that is at once Erik and not-Erik, cold and cruel and blank to Charles's senses._

_ "Erik – Erik, _stop_," Charles begs._

_ "Give me one good reason."_

_ The pain reaches an unbearable limit, and Erik feels his mouth open as his entire body seizes. He screams, his throat already so, so raw from Schmidt-Shaw's death, but he can't help it – he is no longer Charles Xavier, but the red-skinned teleporter and the USSR captain and the US gunman and Moira and everyone within his range, everyone that is screaming in pain and fear and confusion and it's just _too loud_, he is breaking, cracking, shattering into a million pieces, too many to ever be put back together – _

_ Distantly, the torrent eases._

_ He slowly becomes aware of hands patting his face, of being lifted against a chest, of a familiar mind pressing against his own, insistent._

Erik.

_ "Charles – oh thank god, _Charles_."_

_ And that's Erik's voice, just as broken, fear-filled and child-like. He can't imagine himself sounding like that. _

_ "What happened?"_

_ Charles blinks, slowly. Once. Twice. Sunlight filters back into the world, which is suddenly warmer and richer and color-filled again now that Erik's back in the painting, the helmet cast carelessly aside into the distance, Erik's mind and body curled around him as a shield between him and the real world._

_ Charles presses himself to Erik's body, clinging tightly. "I won't survive if you kill them," he whispers. "Please don't."_

_ Erik's chest heaves, and then the one hand is has raised, pointing towards the ship, drops._

_ This time, when the bullets ring out, Erik feels his twin shove Charles's body forward, planting himself over Charles's body as a physical shield, his abilities rippling outwards to push the bullets away, towards the ocean, and then reaching out to seize the gun and dissemble it, his mind a pulse of protect-Charles-protect-Charles-protect-Charles._

Erik jolts back to himself, instinctively leaping to his feet and as a result tumbling gracelessly to the floor. For a moment he lays there, dazed and confused, simultaneously himself and Charles's memory-self, before Charles's hands on his shoulder rouse him.

Erik bites at his lip, relishing in the pain that grounds him. "So. It was different for you."

Charles nods.

There's a moment of silence.

Then Erik asks, "Why didn't you just stop him? Take control. He took his helmet off, when he saw – heard you screaming. You could have stopped him for sure."

Charles gives him a sad smile, rocking back to sit on his heels. He looks exhausted and sweaty and miserable. He looks like he's dying to be able to hold Erik, or let Erik hold him, or even simply snuggle against his side and sleep for ten thousand years until the world has crumbled to dust. And he looks far less than a meek human professor, and more like the invincible god and leader of mutants that Erik has always envisioned him as.

"I love Erik," Charles answers simply. "I love him for exactly who he is. I will not change that. If we are too succeed, we must let everyone make up their own minds. Erik made his choice to not let the missiles fall."

"You didn't know for sure that he would let it happen, though."

Charles shakes his head, slowly. "Not until he did."

"Why didn't you take control then?"

"Because I love him," Charles repeats, "and sometimes, Erik, you just have to believe."

Erik's eyelids droop. He is suddenly so, so tired. He hasn't used his abilities so dramatically since Cuba; their confrontations with the government have been relatively small scale and sometimes didn't even need him. The actual whole day has been so exhausting, actually. He blinks once, twice, and sees Charles frown and hover closer, sees him mouth, _Erik, my friend, are you all right?_ And then darkness swallows Erik, wrapping him in a lover's embrace of oblivion that he sinks oh so gratefully into.

Tomorrow can wait for a little while.


	7. Truth From a Certain Point of View

A/N: Almost done, people! Just the epilogue and we're done, and hopefully it'll be out in a day or two.

Title is a reference to Star Wars – yes, I'm a SW geek. If you don't get it, you really don't need to to understand the chapter. So just ignore my ramblings.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chapter Six: Truth From a Certain Point of View<em>**

~ _1967 Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>This Charles is so different that Erik can barely recognize him. He shares the blue eyes that Erik can pick out from a crowd of a thousand, the chocolate locks Erik often spends his time with his fingers buried into, the marvelous mutation that Erik is simultaneously in awe and in fear of. He lived the same life as Charles did, he met and grew to know Erik the same way, he still is determinedly pushing for peace and coexistence. In every way, physical and mental, he is still very much like the Charles Erik remembers so vividly.<p>

And yet.

And yet he is not.

This Charles is, first and foremost, far less physically active. This, Erik concedes, can partly be blamed on the fact that the man is paralyzed, and is still getting used to working with a wheelchair. He still needs help doing the most basic of tasks as he gets tired, sometimes being unable to even get into the wheelchair without someone's help.

Yet the Charles Erik remembers would have tried to make the best of the situation.

This Charles . . . does not. He spends most of his time, according to Hank, in bed, nursing out his frustration and anger and apathy, or in the study room, gazing wordlessly out the window towards the satellite dish or onto the frozen chessboard.

It's like he's just . . . shut down. Broken.

_Defeated_.

Even after Erik requests that they speak, Charles avoids his gaze and escapes to his room, claiming a headache. Without the bond, Erik guesses he's lying, but Hank tells him that the telepath gets headaches often nowadays – real, genuine migraines that no medication in the world can possibly cure. And Erik knows that part is, at least, true; whenever Charles or Emma gets a headache, there's no medication that can cure it, except perhaps Emma going to Charles for help or Charles coming to Erik to curl up inside his mind to rest until the telepath's mind calms down a bit.

After an hour passes, Erik sighs and projects, _You can't avoid me forever, Charles Xavier._

There is no response.

Grumbling, Erik shoves himself to his feet, divesting himself of the ostentatious gloves and cape of his twin's costume. He would, sadly, prefer the obnoxious yellow-and-blue jumpsuits to this.

He resolves to never let Beast know, though.

Alex and Sean avoid him almost studiously, despite his and Charles explaining the true nature of the situation. He guesses that they don't really know what to make of him. When he mentions Moira – his relationship with her is slightly rocky, as he tends to annoy the CIA no matter what and there is still the fact that Charles fell in love with Erik over Moira, but over time they've found things to admire in each other – the guilty silence makes him realize that she is gone. So, as a last resort, he heads for the labs, where he knows Hank spends most of his time holed up in.

Erik pushes open the door, and says bluntly, "Charles is avoiding me. On purpose."

The blue-furred mutant sighs. For a long moment, he says nothing, but focuses on continuing to stare and take down notes about whatever he's studying on the microscope.

Then: "It's Charles's way."

Erik frowns. He remembers, vaguely, the way Charles used to handle confrontations before 1962, where all their lives changed – and yes, Charles did tend to go out of his way to avoid direct conflict whereas Erik would go diving in, but he doesn't remember it ever being this bad.

Hank looks up at him. "I take it the Professor you know isn't quite like this?"

Erik slumps onto a lab stool and rubs at his face. He's never been away from Charles quite this long since they've bonded, and the empty spot in the back of his mind is starting to bother him. He actually now _misses_ the sarcastic little comments Charles likes to interject when he's ranting or merely thinking about random things during the day, which says just how lost he is.

"The Charles I know," Erik says slowly, "would have been asking me questions until, and possibly even after, I hit him for treating me like a specimen."

Hank nods. "I can remember that one." His face sours slightly. "But the Professor is . . . still . . . shaken after Cuba. It took him a long time to recover from Angel's desertion and Darwin's death too. But this – losing Raven and Er-Magneto – it's taking a toll on him. And becoming paralyzed isn't helping either."

Erik lifts his eyebrow at the stumble. "You don't call him Erik anymore?"

"It's easier."

"Why?"

"Magneto's already made the public news by attacking the government. We've also already fought him once. He put Sean in the hospital for a week." Hank takes a deep breath. "It's just easier to separate him from Erik, that's all. Even the Professor doesn't mention him at all."

Erik has had his suspicions, but it's Hank's comment that settles them. He crosses his arms, wondering how to say this. Back home, the Westchester mansion is discrimination-free. Little questions of homosexuality mean little to those who can change shape and read minds and call down lightning from the heavens. It may take a little while, but mostly people have accepted that Charles is Erik's and Erik is Charles's, and making comments will lead to rather nasty behavior from everyone, from Raven to Emma. They daren't show their affection in public, unless someone is threatening Charles's or Erik's life during a fight – in which case all bets are off, because Erik and Charles are equally ruthless in defending the other – but within the confines of the mansion, even Erik thinks almost nothing, now, of a casual kiss or tugging Charles into his arms whenever he feels like it. He's a private man, but he also is territorial, and in any case, the gestures keep at bay Charles's constant worry that Erik will one day lose interest in Charles.

He suspects it's not quite the same here.

"You did not realize that they were together, did you?"

Hank goes still. Very still. The guilty kind, as if Erik had caught him with his paw in the cookie jar or something like that. "No."

"Do you feel it's wrong?"

Hank carefully sets down his pen and adjusts his glasses. He looks like he doesn't want to offend but can't himself.

"You can speak. I won't be offended." Erik stretches out his legs, relaxing and hoping it will make Hank relax. "I've heard worse from some, I can guarantee you." He doesn't talk about the pink triangles, although he can still, quite vividly, remember them, especially those with the Star of David inlaid with the pink triangles. Not, of course, that they ever made Erik any bit ashamed of his attraction to men.

It seems to be the go ahead Hank is waiting for. "Scientifically, it's just not _right_," he protests. "There's no biological imperative. The point of the species is to reproduce. A man with a man . . . can't."

Erik taps his fingers against the table, thinking. There are a variety of counter-arguments for this, most of which he learned from Charles the first time a mutant recruit decided to poke fun at them and Erik nearly took off the mutant's head.

"No, you're right, we can't," he says calmly. "But not every pair that _can_ reproduce does, Hank. Don't tell me you've never met a childless couple."

"But still . . ."

"Still what? Our species is not driven simply by the need to reproduce, or the instinct to. We are more than our instinct. Isn't that what makes us an advanced species, above such things as worms and rabbits? We can love for no purpose more than to _love_ someone, can't we? And we can love without needing to have children, either."

Hank looks down. "It just makes me uncomfortable."

"You're a child of your time."

"So are you."

"I won't debate that." Even as Erik speaks, he remembers the rage-fuelled hunt that drove him for decades, and his tattoo tingles on his right arm. "But I should like to point out that I am not the one running around and tearing down government buildings."

When Hank makes no recourse, Erik changes tack.

"When did you figure it out? And Sean and Alex, when did they find out?"

"It was . . . not very long after," Hank admits. "The Professor was heavily sedated, of course, but he just . . . even when they took him off, the first thing he asked for was Magneto. He didn't even seem to really see us, or Moira. He just kept asking for Magneto. And when he has nightmares, it's Magneto he calls for, sometimes. Most times. I don't think he's really scared of Magneto hurting him; I just think he doesn't feel _right_ anymore. Anytime he broadcasts for Magneto, it's always like he's scared and wants Magneto back to reassure him. And I don't . . . know how to deal with that."

Erik is quiet as he tries to process this. He can't imagine his Charles – no, scratch that. He _can_.

He can still remember, quite vividly, the time when the Friends of Humanity tried to have him taken into custody because he wasn't a US citizen and hadn't actually entered the country legally. He'd never seen Charles so scared after the telepath had read the minds of those wanting to have him taken away, and he'd had to defy his own reservations and kiss him before Charles finally let his grip loosen enough for Erik to step away and leave with the officers. (Partially, Erik had wanted to see what the Friends of Humanity would do, and he'd also wanted to see whether the CIA would stick by their promise.) It had been boring and amusing – until they'd slapped an anti-telepathy helmet on his head. It had been three days before they had finally, grudgingly, released him, and he had stepped back into Westchester to find Charles curled into a tiny, shaking ball in their bed, eyes blood-shot from no sleep and telepathy wildly out of control. Later on, Emma had told him that Charles had been having nightmares whenever he'd tried to sleep, nightmares filled with the details of Erik's own memories from the camps, and the full force of Charles's fear had nearly made Erik vomit. Charles hadn't calmed down, trembling in Erik's embrace like a lost scared child, for two whole hours. Now, with the bond between them, it's nearly impossible for them to fall asleep unless in the company of the other.

So Erik can understand, a little.

He, of course, tends to swing the opposite way. Charles, in the past, tended to hide, scared and wanting Erik back; Erik nearly bulldozes his way straight to rage and has to be restrained and forced to think things through. He does not tolerate Charles being torn from him against Charles's will. The last time Charles had been seized during a trip to a conference on genetics, Erik had nearly destroyed a state's worth of highway in his rage, knowing Charles was cut off from his telepathy and furious at the humans who had forced the helmet on Charles. (The first thing he'd done upon finding Charles, after tearing the helmet off, was to scoop the telepath into his arms and not let him go until his heart had stopped racing a million miles an hour.)

"Your Professor isn't like that?"

"Charles is too used to me, now. The bond includes some parts of our minds bleeding over and . . . being integrated. Now Charles is more likely to come and get me instead of hiding away." Not, Erik does not say, that they've been separated that way since their bonding to test such a hypothesis.

Erik senses that they've exhausted this topic. Hopefully, his words will help Hank settle down in Charles's presence, and hopefully it will help them both. But if not, there's nothing more he can say.

"How is Cerebro coming?"

"Oh, it's – "

_?_

Erik sits bolt upright at the touch against his mind. It's not even a full word, just a sense of questioning emotion. _Yes, Charles?_ he says, lowering his shields cautiously.

He is flooded by a tinge of shame and fear and confusion. Charles's projection skills are slipping, he realizes unhappily. But he remains silent; Charles is already embarrassed enough by this whole affair. And he can read Charles well enough to know that sometimes, letting the telepath talk it out is the best method.

_I'm sorry for ignoring you. I just . . . You can talk to me. Now._

_Study room?_

There is more shame. _I . . . No._

Too many memories, Erik realizes, remembering Hank's comment about the satellite and the chessboard. Charles is already off-balance as it is.

_Your room, then?_ he suggests.

_All right._

When he comes back to it, Hank is still rattling off figures, eyes alight and hands all over the place. There is a reason that Erik tells Hank he's becoming just like Charles, and it is evident right here and now. As it is, he hates to cut Hank short, but there are a few words he does need to hammer into Charles's brain. So.

"Hank, I'm very sorry, but Charles – "

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I, um – yeah."

Erik claps Hank on the shoulder. "Mutant and proud, Beast," he says in farewell, remembering all too well Hank's squeamishness over his blue form for his first year or two.

He travels the corridors to Charles's room. He knows this route so well he could do it blindfolded, he thinks. For one thing, Erik has a good memory, but he's also bonded to the telepath who spent his childhood exploring this place, and he has already accessed those memories. His memories are Charles's now, and vice versa. They can separate them, to some degree, but the bleed-over is amazingly across the board and very hard to spot.

When he pushes open the door, Charles is sitting in his bed, hands pressed to his unfeeling legs, eyes unfocused.

So he crosses the room and sits down as hard as he can, so that the mattress bounces and Charles make an aborted jump of surprise, reaching out instinctively to touch Erik's mind and check his intentions.

"You wanted to speak with me?"

"I thought that was what _you_ wanted," Charles says.

Erik tilts his head. "This is your world, not mine," he points out. "So. How about you explain how this happened? No one else will."

Charles looks away. "I don't like to talk about it."

Typical Charles.

"You don't have to spare my feelings, Charles. In my world, you are walking."

_That_ gets Charles's attention. His blue eyes snap to Erik's, searching for confirmation – but he does not touch Erik's mind. Not even a brush. And Charles is horrible at doing this the normal way, as he's so tangled up in his telepathy, just the way Raven is with her shapeshifting and Erik is with his magnetic abilities.

After a long moment, Charles speaks. "When . . . Erik sent the missiles back at the ships, I tackled him. I tried to take the helmet off – just to talk to him, I swear – but he . . ."

"Punched you, I presume," Erik says dryly. He can remember his mindset on that beach, and how volatile he used to be. He can imagine punching Charles, much as he couldn't possibly do it now unless they were sparring, and even then he has the tendency to pull his punches with Charles and merely wrestle playfully.

Charles lets it pass uncontested. "I couldn't even speak after that. But when he stood up and kept the missiles going, Moira decided to shoot. It distracted Erik – the missiles started falling. But then I tried to stand up, tried to tell Moira to stop, tried to . . . do something. And the next thing I knew, there was a bullet in my back. I . . . Erik . . . he removed the bullet, but by then it was already too late. I couldn't feel my legs anymore."

Erik takes Charles's hand and presses it to his forehead. "Why don't you show me?"

Charles shakes his head. "No. Please."

Erik lets Charles's hand go. There is something . . . "Are you afraid of me?"

"What? No."

But Erik can see the faint tremor in Charles's muscles, can read the way the telepath shies away from his touch, can sense the quickening of his heartbeat. Charles may not consciously think himself afraid, but he is, _he is_. And that hurts.

And worst of all, it's _understandable_. Erik put a bullet in his beloved's back.

"What happened after that?"

Charles's eyes grow unhappy and dim. "He asked me to go with him. I . . . said no."

It's like the faintest taste of a memory, or a ghost, the words that rise to Erik's lips. He can't explain where they came from, except that he knows, without question, that he was the one to say it, somehow, somewhere. "Us turning on each other. It's what they want. I tried to warn you, Charles. I want you by my side. We're brothers, you and I. All of us, together. Protecting each other. We . . . We want the same thing."

It has a similar effect on Charles's, whose eyes grow wide and fearful, like he's seeing a ghost.

"Erik said that," he breathes.

"You . . . told him no."

Charles trembles like a piece of parchment in the wind – frail, fragile, alone. He looks so lost that Erik longs to wrap him up in his arms, to kiss him, to promise that he is not alone and that Erik will never leave him or stop loving him.

But that is not a promise that is Erik's to make.

"I couldn't agree to that," Charles says, finally. "I couldn't agree to a war with the humans. I couldn't. It goes against everything I believe in."

For a long moment, Erik stares.

Then the words sink in, and Erik _still_ stares.

And then he throws back his head and laughs, painfully, because of course this is their life – one misunderstanding after another. It's a miracle they haven't slit each other's throats yet, a goddamn miracle.

"It's true!" Charles insists, looking more indignant than fearful now.

Erik closes his mouth and wrestles himself back under control. He has to tread delicately now. But Charles _must_ know this, he _must_.

"Charles . . . I am not the Erik you know. But I was there on that beach too." Erik hesitates. "And I can safely say that when he said that you wanted the same thing, it was _not_ a war on the humans."

Charles's mouth thins stubbornly. "Yes, it was."

"Seeing as he was wearing a telepathy-blocking helmet, and I _am_ Erik, I would think I am right."

"Well, then what _was _he talking about?"

Erik raises an eyebrow. "You can't guess, Professor?"

"No." Charles seems to lose it, then. "Come on, Magneto. You – _He_ had just sent a thousand missiles to destroy two fleets. He strangled Moira. He _shot_ me. He declared that it was time to unite with _Shaw's men_ to fight the humans. What else could he possibly have meant by – "

"_You_," Erik snaps.

That shuts Charles up.

"He meant _you_. Or . . . you . . . I mean," Erik sighs frustrated. He gestures to Charles and himself. "_Us_, Charles. He meant _us_. He meant you being willing to love him despite everything else, because I was willing – _he_ was willing to love you too. He meant being willing to still love him despite him paralyzing you. He meant you being willing to love him even though he still had trouble trusting your telepathy. He meant still wanting to make a school with him, to help mutants rise, to . . ." Here Erik falters momentarily. This is a private dream. But it was discussed before Cuba – surely this Charles must know. It's something that's among one of his most precious dreams, simply because it was his first where he painted Charles squarely as its cornerstone. ". . . to have a kingdom, a safe haven, for mutants."

Charles stares at him, mouth open. He looks like a fish out of water as his jaw opens and closes several times, but no sounds come out.

"Oh," he says finally, in a small voice.

Erik gentles his voice. "I know that he was wearing the helmet that blocked you out. But don't tell me you'd never been in his mind before. For him – for me – family comes first, always. Especially people we love. He wanted to share that dream with you. That was what he was asking for when he asked if you wanted the same thing."

"I . . ."

"You do, don't you?"

Charles seems to want to look away, but is unable to, and Erik feels a surge of triumph. This Charles is so different, but he still loves Erik.

This can still be fixed.

Whenever they figure out where the _real_ Magneto is, and whenever Erik gets back to his Charles.

"Yes," Charles whispers, finally, like it's a secret.

Erik rises and embraces the telepath, because he knows Charles wants it. As the telepath trembles and melts against him, eyes closed, Erik says, "You don't have to always be fighting at opposite ends, Charles. I found a way. So can you. You _do_ want the same thing, but the world isn't as black and white as you two believe. Find the middle way. It'll serve you best."

"But what if he doesn't – "

"Want you? God, Charles, I'll never stop wanting you."

"But you aren't him."

Erik snorts into Charles's hair. "Charles, I was already yours before the beach. Do you think he'll be any different?"

"I hope not."

"Pessimism does not suit you."

"Well, optimism is strange on you, my friend."

Erik smiles. At least Charles still has a small sense of humor. "You'll be just fine," he says quietly, and kisses the telepath's hair. "You can do this."

There's a long moment of silence. But it's no longer uncomfortable. He's seen Charles fall to pieces before – this is no different. But Erik knows – believes, has to believe, that this Charles and this Erik can find a way to be together. He's barely half a soul without Charles at his side, and he doesn't want to wish that fate on anyone, much less his other universe's twin. Charles has made him into the man he is, even more than Shaw and the camps, and he has shaped Charles just as much. This Charles and his Erik – they can be so much more than anything they are apart, and they can _do_ so much more than anything they can do apart.

They just have to realize that truth can come from many different points of view.

When Charles shifts under him, Erik asks, "Do you want me to leave?"

"Please don't."

_Good_, Erik thinks. Charles needs to learn to ask for what he wants sometimes. Now is as good a time as any to start that habit. He suspects his other twin might not settle for anything less if they are to find a way to fix this.

"Then sleep," he murmurs, shifting to lay Charles down and then moving to cradle the telepath close. "You can find a way for this to work, I promise. You can. Just remember that Erik doesn't exactly say things straight out – just like you, but differently. So take the time to talk. To ask. Remember that he'd die for you." A pause. "Remember that he loves you more than anything else in the world."

Charles snuffles. "I do too."

"So just remember to tell him that."

Charles presses gently at the edges of his mind. _Can I?_ he asks hesitantly.

_Yes._

They fall asleep like that, entangled mind and body, both wishing for something, for someone, that isn't there. But Charles, at least, Erik can sense, is better now, more hopeful, more optimistic to face a future that needs him to lead it. He can't do so if he's going to spend the rest of his life moping around and mourning Erik over chessboards and windows. For now he's content, and ready to accept his fate, and ready to make attempts to reconcile with the others. For now he understands that Erik only ever wanted him.

It's all Erik asks for.

It's all the other Erik _should_ have asked for.


	8. Epilogue: There Are No Happy Endings

A/N: Um. So. I accidentally uploaded the wrong chapter instead of the legit epilogue. My apologies to everyone whose hopes I got up! (This is the real thing, I swear, I checked it at least twice.)

To see1like: Yeah, my title's not quite the best. . . I intended to model it after the saying, or something like the saying, "Wake up and smell the coffee, blah blah blah". And I am unfortunately horrible at coming up with good titles. If you have anything better, please let me know, I SUCK at coming up with titles. . .

To wordonawing: Trust me, you're not the only one with an obsession about telepaths. I support Erik/Charles, but I tend to agree with Charles's views more than Erik's, so whatever I write, I end up usually trying to present Charles's view, telepathy and all, because I feel like Charles's mutation really was . . . underdeveloped in the film when it came to his personal struggles. Erik had the whole "rage-and-serenity" bit and Hank got the Dr. Jekyll&Hyde thing and Raven got the "accept yourself" but Charles . . . not so much.

To krissy1317: I honestly didn't think about it much either, until I started writing the chapter and thinking about what the heck they could possibly talk about, and then I was like, "Wait. Maybe Erik wasn't just talking 'bout war. Let's just run with that and see how people take it." Glad it worked out!

And that's it! Hope you enjoyed the ride! Title is a quote from The Last Unicorn, by Smendrick. Thanks to all the reviews, they really, really, really made my day!

* * *

><p><strong><em>Epilogue: There Are No Happy Endings<em>**

~ _1967 Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>Erik wakes up, abruptly, when there is a sharp mental question sent skidding his way, clumsily and broadly sent. It's not even directed at him, really, but he's grown sensitive to telepathy in his years with Charles. However, when he slams his shields up instinctively, he hears a soft mumble of protest from his side.<p>

He knows that voice better than anyone else.

Erik's eyes flick open to find himself dressed in his god-awful mission suit, which is sticky with sweat after not being removed. But at least, he reasons, it's better than his twin's "Magneto" costume.

And Charles –

His telepath, his lover, his Charles is lying next to him, curled so close that there's barely an inch between them.

"Charles?" he breathes.

Charles's eyes open, slowly, and he yawns, stretching like a lithe cat at his side. Erik finds himself grinning helplessly; despite everything that has bled over, Charles remains resolutely against being an early morning riser. Sometimes Erik has to physically drag the telepath out of bed, with his powers and holding Charles tight to his body, to wake him up properly. He doesn't blame Charles, usually; Charles has a very hard time falling asleep with so many mutant minds around him, dreaming and projecting, even with Erik next to him as an anchor where he can retreat whenever he pleases to escape the chaos his telepath brings.

"Morning, Magneto," Charles mumbles, curling closer but still not touching.

Erik's heart goes completely still.

_Magneto?_

He knows that name. And while he is sometimes affectionately called that by Raven or Azazel, it's never something Charles has ever called him in private.

Charles's eyes snap open and he sits bolt upright at Erik's unintended projected thought.

"Erik?"

Erik yanks on the metal bracelets at the same time that Charles brings their minds together, and for a moment it's a blur of sensation – the crash of Charles's body against his own, the messy, hasty kisses as Erik wraps his hands around Charles and tugs him close, the beautiful fireworks that light up the spot where their minds connect as Charles falls into his mind and they circle, an iron planet and a burning golden sun, around and around and around, because they orbit each other and are more one than anything else.

When Erik remembers that he has to breathe, he pulls away and rests his forehead against Charles as the telepath nuzzles contently at his neck, relaxing and slumping like molten metal against him.

_Hello, schatz_, Erik thinks, feeling an unbearable tenderness rise within him.

Charles hums in agreement. _I've missed you._ His words are tinged with sadness and lingering fear, but mainly he is regaining his footing, using Erik as an anchor to wash away whatever he's been through in Erik's absence, and already Erik can feel Charles's mind quieting as they meld again.

_Anything interesting happen while I was gone?_

Charles shifts in his arms. _I met your alter ego_, he says, tone cheerful and bright. _He was . . . interesting. I – I think I might have scarred him._

_You? Scarred him – me? What did you do?_ Erik wonders, bewildered. He had his own little panic attack, so he did scare the other universe's Charles and Raven, but – what could Charles possibly do to scare _his_ alternate twin –

Oh.

Erik does not delude himself; of them two, Charles is infinitely the stronger. Erik would do anything to keep Charles safe, it's true, but Charles is just as equally devoted to Erik's own safety. There's been more than one situation where they both ended up in the line of fire because they tried to keep the other out of it. If Charles had gotten a hint that Erik wasn't actually nearby and no one knew where he had gone . . .

_Yes_, Charles confirms, sounding guilty. _I didn't mean to. But I was scared. And lonely._

Charles doesn't really have a voice in this mental conversation, nor are they actually truly conversing. It's an exchange of thoughts, really, on the outside, but in reality, due to the bond, it's more of a series of emotions and pictures and associations that a telepath like Charles can easily learn to read and translate into words. But despite this, Erik can picture the wrinkle in Charles's forehead, and can hear his "voice" shrivel and go quiet.

It's not that Charles dislikes admitting weaknesses. It's that he persists in his ridiculous delusion that one day Erik will wake up and think that he can do better than Charles.

Which is absolutely ridiculous.

In every sense of the word.

After all, if there's anyone who could do better, it's Charles. Erik wouldn't hold a candle to an average match for Charles, for God's sake. He knows he's not even close to ideal. But Charles, miraculously, wants him, so he's determined to never ever let this prize slip away from his grasp. Perhaps not even if Charles asked, politely, as is his way.

Erik buries his nose in chocolate locks and inhales Charles's familiar scent, scattering kisses randomly over his hair. _I would never leave you like that. Ever._

_I know._

_Good._ Erik is quiet for a moment, basking in the utter _trust_ and _content_ seeping from Charles into him as the telepath dozes quietly in his arms, safe and secure. _So. What was my alter ego like?_

Charles, unfortunately, sees right through him. _You mean, did he hurt me?_

_Charles – I met another version of you_, Erik says, quickly. _My alter ego put a _bullet_ in his _spine_. Of course I'm worried. You're strong, yes, but you would have hesitated before striking someone wearing my face, don't you dare deny it._

_So would you._

_I would _love_ to see someone who could accurately replicate you_, Erik thinks wryly, touching the bracelets on Charles's wrists with his power. Raven could possibly replicate their _look_, but Erik _made_ these bracelets, made them perfect and flawless and unique. He can tell what metal he has touched and what metal he has not. And more importantly, each telepath's touch upon a mind feels different; it'd take a lot of skill to replicate the same feel Charles brings, and even more to replicate an extra half of the bond they share.

Charles grumbles. _Fine, fine. He was lovely, Erik, really._

Erik raises an eyebrow.

_He was._

Up goes the other eyebrow.

_He was genuinely startled to know that we shared a bond. And the bracelets. I . . . I pity him, Erik_, Charles admits in a rush. _He's so alone and sad and just . . . broken. Do you know the thought I picked up most from him?_

_No._

Charles thinks on it for a moment, and then pushes something at Erik across the bond. It's a formless mass of pulsing grey and black, oozing feelings everywhere like a toddler with no control, rippling and contracting with every breath like a living, dreadful mimicry of a human heart. When he touches it, a shock runs through his entire body: _grief-rage-helplessness-fear-anger-despair-despair-despair-Charlesforgiveme-nodon'tforgivemeI'mnotworthit-CharlesIloveyouIswearIdidn'tmeanto-_ –

It's a black pit of despair, a black hole that sucks in every good feeling and leaves the person feeling apathetic and wracked with a longing that slowly consumes them inside and out.

It's horrifying.

"Oh god," Erik breathes out loud, unable to help himself. This is not a fate he would have wished on anyone.

This is a person who hates himself so much that he would almost gladly – _gladly_ – tip back his throat for the knife that he wants Charles, dear sweet Charles, to wield. This is what Erik might have been. This is what an alter ego of Erik's _is_. And God, it's worse than Shaw, who was vile and repulsive but glorified in it. To a telepath's senses, the worst thing is when someone hates her- or himself.

_How could he hurt me? _Charles asks quietly. _He could barely look at me._

Erik merely holds Charles closer, grounding himself in Charles, reminding himself that that will not happen, ever, that Charles is here now and safe, that they are fine and together and happy.

He can feel Charles shuffling through his memories, examining them like an overeager puppy, and he lets him, watching from afar in amusement as Charles flicks through his files like they are the most interesting thing in the world.

Then he pauses on Erik's memory of his hug session with the other Charles.

_Are you angry with me?_ Erik asks, once the silence has grown on a tad long, especially for a chatterer like Charles.

Charles shakes his head at once, broadcasting surprise and a helpless sense of . . . _amusement_. _I talked to your alter ego too. I do hope they can work things out._

_Me too._

Charles grins suddenly, like a cat, peeking slyly up at him through long lashes. _I always knew you were a big softie._

_Charles!_

_It's why I love you._

Erik sighs. Thank God they are not talking out loud. This would have been one odd conversation had anyone walked in –

As if on cue, the door opens to reveal Emma, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor. "Magneto, Charles, get up, breakfast is ready, and – "

Her eyes grow wide as Erik stands and tugs Charles up and then back into his arms.

"Oh. You're back."

Erik grins. "Did you miss me?"

Emma flickers into diamond form, casting rainbows all over the room, and grins right back. "Oh, you have no idea what kind of ammunition I have for you now, sugar. Just you _wait_," she says, cackling madly like the plotting she-devil that she is when she feels like it.

"Remind me why I didn't snap her head off in Russia," Erik complains.

Charles smacks him. _Erik._

When Erik feels the tell-tale surge of metal that signifies that Emma has alerted the rest of their merry bunch to the fact that Erik is back, he groans and considers whether or not it's worth waiting out the inevitable group-hug and patting on the back and questions. He really doesn't want to, even though Charles smacks him again and tells him to be nice to his family because they did miss him and they really did want him back and now they're just happy that he is.

"_You_ are my family, not that madhouse," Erik grumbles.

Then he yanks Charles back to him and kisses him square on the mouth as the gang approaches the door.

"Erik!"

"Oh god my eyes, my eyes, _my eyes_!"

"Dude, so _not_ cool!"

"Erik, there are _children_ here, _my god_ – "

"Get a room, you two – "

"They are just so adorable, sometimes, aren't they – "

_You utter and complete _twat_, Erik Lehnsherr_, Charles huffs indignantly, even as he opens his mouth for Erik's insistent kiss and melts against his body with a soft little sigh of content, winding his arms around Erik's neck to tug him down further as Erik wraps his arms around Charles's waist, intent on never letting go. _I hate you._

And this. This is what Erik's life is supposed to be like.

_Happily-ever-after_, Erik thinks with a shrug, and slams the door on the brats so he can finish greeting Charles in peace.

* * *

><p>~ <em>1963 Erik Lehnsherr<em> ~  
>Erik thinks that fate needs to stop messing with him.<p>

He's fully expecting to regret falling asleep on the floor in a sweaty mission suit. Erik has slept in some rather odd places, granted, but in the past year or so his stolen wealth and then his time with Charles has led to him getting a decent bed for most nights in a row, so he knows his body will complain when he doesn't adhere to that.

Instead, he wakes up in a nice, lovely four-poster bed with silk sheets and a soft mattress and a warm body tucked against his own.

He opens his eyes and panics.

It's _Charles_.

Oh God, the other Erik is going to _murder_ him. He knows how territorial _he_ can get, and he hasn't even staked a claim on his Charles like the other Erik has.

And yet – he can't bring himself to move. The panic is there, but distantly, far away and in some part of his brain that is vaguely trying to figure out how to gracefully extricate himself.

But Charles is a solid, warm, comforting weight in his arms, and Erik doesn't want to leave.

He watches, entranced, the way the rising sunlight casts a glow on Charles's pale skin, the way the telepath murmurs randomly in his sleep and snuggles closer into Erik's arms, the way his chest rises and falls oh so gently, the way his breath heats Erik's neck as he breathes, the way his hair tumbles all over his head in a messy waterfall of chocolate locks. He has seen Charles sleep before, but never like this – always in dinky, dark hotels where he was afraid of revealing his interest and so usually settled for shaking Charles roughly and then slinking away. And the one time he actually slept with Charles, he was up and out the door for a morning run before Charles woke, and then it was Cuba, and that whole debacle.

So he cherishes his time now, even if this is not his Charles.

That's about when Charles's eyes open, luxuriously slow, blue clouded in sleep, a lazy smile across his face. "Morning," he yawns.

And then he jumps.

"Erik?" he gasps, his eyes lighting up, his hands tightening in Erik's turtleneck as if he expects Erik to vanish.

And Erik, eloquent metalkinetic that he is, says, "Hi, Charles."

Charles buries himself in Erik's hold, face pressed to his chest, his frame vibrating with excitement. "You're back! I'm glad you are – I missed you – and – where have you been, actually?" he asks, frowning and pulling back.

"Long story. But . . ."

But Charles isn't kicking him out. Isn't shouting at him. Isn't blaming him. And Erik can feel, distinctly, the dead weight of Charles's unfeeling legs against his own and the thrum of iron in Charles's veins, so he isn't dreaming. And he begins to hope for something nameless and formless, something he can barely believe he might have dreamed for.

"Charles – why did you tell me to leave? On the beach?"

Charles's eyes flicker and he seems to withdraw, curling into a small ball and looking pleadingly up at Erik. "I thought . . . I thought it was what you wanted," he says quietly, like a child. "I didn't . . . want to hold you back."

Typical Charles.

"Answer me honestly, Charles, please." Erik lets his head rest on the pillow, so that he and Charles are at eye level with each other, practically breathing the same air. "If I had sent the missiles back at the ships and destroyed them, would the psychic backlash have killed you?"

The big blue eyes grow even bigger, and Charles trembles. "I don't know."

Erik lifts his hand and settles it on Charles's neck, sweeping his thumb over Charles's neck and throat, relishing the silky, warm feel of Charles's skin. "You're lying."

" . . . Probably. Yes."

Erik swallows. He hadn't thought the other Charles would be lying to him, but to hear it confirmed is another thing entirely. Yet another crime he's committed against the one man he should have cherished above all else, who he should have valued above all else, who he should have protected until his last drop of blood and breath.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"I . . . I know it probably won't make much a difference, but . . . I'm sorry," Charles says suddenly.

Erik blinks. "Whatever for?"

"On the beach – you asked me if we wanted the same thing." Charles plays nervously with a corner of the blankets, chewing at his lip. "I told you no."  
>"Yes. . ." It had been a moment when Erik's world came crashing down, to be rejected so completely by the one he loved. In his anger, he'd cast Charles aside and tried to forge his own path, to forget. It hadn't gone so well for him either.<p>

"I was wrong."

"What?"

"I thought . . . that you meant for me to go to war with you. To help you get rid of the humans," Charles admits. "I'm so sorry. I should have known better than to think you'd ask that of me."

Erik stares.

He loves Charles for everything that makes him unable to take Erik's path, to see Erik's way, to do what Erik is willing to do in the name of his brothers and sisters. To force Charles down his path, to break Charles of everything that made him _Charles_ – that would be a request he could never make. He could never douse the flame that burns so brightly in Charles, never ever. It irks him, sometimes, but Erik just wants to cherish it forever, hold it within his cupped hands and never let anyone else see it or touch it or harm it, and most importantly, he never wants to see it go out.

He could never ask that of Charles.

"So . . . I . . ."

"I'm sorry," Erik blurts out, unable to listen to Charles's fumbling apologies. Charles was never in the wrong at the beach. "You . . . I was wrong, Charles. You were right about the fact that we were not ready for war. And I shouldn't have left you behind. . ."

Even now, the thought that he abandoned Charles to the mercy of humans makes his stomach try to reject its contents.

Charles's face softens, ever so slightly, and he presses into Erik's hand like a cat.

"Maybe we were both wrong," he says.

Maybe.

But a stirring of hope lifts its head in Erik's chest. Charles still isn't yelling at him or rejecting him. Maybe they can do as Charles said, to find a way, to hope, to _believe_. He wants Charles and Charles wants him, and somehow the other universe made it work, so why can't he? Charles, of all people, deserves a happy ending.

"Charles."

"Yes?"

Erik clears his throat. "I would ask to start again. To try again. With this." He averts his eyes, embarrassed. "With us. If you'll . . . if you'll have me."

There is a long moment of silence.

Then Charles is sliding into his mind, like a puzzle piece fitting back into the void Erik's been carrying around for the past year, and it's like coming home again. He's at peace again. It's beautiful and lovely and all Charles.

_I would never want another. I will never want another_, Charles says.

_Never will I either._

_So we try again?_ Charles asks.

Erik rests his forehead against Charles's, eyes him. Waits for a sign of hesitation, but it never comes; those blue eyes look at him like he's the answer to world salvation and peace, like he's all Charles ever wants to see, like he's the one thing Charles will never ever stop wanting.

And then he leans in and kisses him, very gently.

_So we try again, my love, so we try again_, Erik confirms. _And we _will_ have our happy ending, I promise you._

Charles laughs at him, softly, so he knows he isn't being mocked, and says, _I don't want us to have one._

_Why not?_

_Because I never want this to end._

Erik draws Charles close, feeling that strange soaring feeling consume his chest. It makes him feel like he could be the king of the entire world, could lift a million submarines, could turn a thousand satellites. This is peace. This is serenity. This is the one thing Erik's never wanted more and will never get enough of.

This is Charles.

_So we will always keep trying, then, forever and always, my love._

**_The End_**


End file.
